


Hope He Might

by Ride4812



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Homicide, M/M, Religion, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 04:01:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 76,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29289522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ride4812/pseuds/Ride4812
Summary: Dueling lawyers.Murder Mystery.NYC.Hamptons.Enemies to Lovers.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 11
Kudos: 76





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter One: Lifestyles of the Assistant District Attorney

On Tuesday and Thursday nights, Ian did yoga. There were times that work got in the way, not  
allowing him a free moment to unwind, but for the most part, he tried not to miss a class. As much  
as he liked the physicality of his practice, it was the routine he enjoyed the most. There was a  
comfort in moving through the sun salutations on his mat beside the same people week after week,  
knowing that for an hour, he could just be.

Sometimes, he picked up food from Dil-e Punjab Deli, which was located on the block between  
the gym and his apartment. He'd get into conversations with the owner's son Shaan, who spoke  
incessantly about the Yankees as he bagged up his order, while Ian feigned interest in baseball just  
so he could hear him speak longer. His voice was sweet as coconut milk with the slightest hint of  
an accent that the Anglo man found equal parts charming and sexy.

Like clockwork, Shaan's father would bark at him in Bengali and the 20-something would  
become a child again, scurrying away from the register to busy himself with any task that wasn't  
chatting with the customers. Ian wondered if the older man realized that though gentrification had  
brought more mainstream retailers to the neighborhood, Chelsea was still one of New York City's  
queerest neighborhoods, thus making a significant number of his regulars part of the community.  
Perhaps he was alright with it, as long as his son worried more about the Yankees than the men  
who wore the uniform.

Ian would head home, disappointed by the interruption, and sit on his couch eating Chicken Tikka  
Masala while watching episodes of Law and Order, a show that both annoyed and entertained him  
more than it probably should have. After he became sufficiently aggravated by the way the story  
lines reminded him of his own cases, he would go to bed, idly admonishing himself for buying  
such a huge mattress that looked so out of place in his narrow room. He'd lay there alone,  
periodically rolling over to rest his cheek on the cool pillow on the other side before finally  
quieting his mind enough to drift to sleep.

Though he couldn't be positive, the way he woke up with his sheets wrapped around him and his  
comforter thrown on the ground told him that he tossed and turned throughout the night, which  
wasn't surprising considering his career was so damn stressful. Throwing on the threadbare Penn  
T-shirt he'd been wearing since his freshman year at the institution eleven years earlier, he'd pee,  
brush his teeth and head down to the small workout facility in his building's basement. He'd do a  
half hour of weights and twenty minutes of cardio before heading back up to his apartment where  
he'd eat oatmeal, a hard boiled egg and an avocado before taking a shower and putting on a suit.

At approximately 7:45am, he'd arrive at the Starbucks on the corner of West 23rd and 8th  
Avenue, where all the baristas knew him and his order. Whoever was behind the counter would  
promptly hand him a trente latte with an extra shot of espresso and one pump of classic and tell  
him to have a nice day. He'd spend the subway ride down to Battery Park telling himself that he  
should really look for a place in TriBeCa, but ultimately deciding that it would take too much  
effort and Chelsea was fine.

By the time he'd get into the office, Mandy would be already settled into her desk, looking over  
files and he'd be glad that he had a paralegal that was as, if not more, diligent than him to work  
with. He'd move through the motions, never particularly excited by anything that happened in a  
life that he found to be pleasant, but rather mundane. It just so happened that Friday the 13th of  
May was a day on which life would become exponentially more interesting.

"Was last night a Tikka night?" Mandy asked, giving him a knowing grin as she followed him  
into his office. She took his coffee out of his hand so he could slide off his messenger bag and  
place on it on his desk.

"It was. I guess the Yankees are still winning, and I'm not," Ian replied with a shake of his head.  
He gave her a weak smile when she patted his arm compassionately. "I know what you're going  
to say..."

"Do you want me to say it?" she offered, drawing a laugh from the red haired man's lips.  
"Because I'm more than happy to say it."

"Oh I know you are," he assured her. "Go ahead."

"Maybe you should actually ask him out. Then you'll see if he's interested in you or, you know,  
men in general."

"I will on Tuesday," Ian decided, earning raised eyebrows from Mandy, who heard the same story  
every week.

"This coming Tuesday or a random Tuesday in 2023?" she attempted to clarify.

"This coming Tuesday," he grinned, as though there wasn't a big chance he'd chicken out like he  
had for the past several weeks.

"I don't understand why you're so shy about this! You're a catch Ian Gallagher."

"I haven't dated in," he paused, trying to think back on the last time he went out with a guy, "a  
really, really long time."

She nodded. "Married to your career, right? I mean, it's been a very successful marriage, so there's  
that."

"There's that," Ian agreed, knowing that the sacrifices he made in order to become the Assistant  
District Attorney were worth it. "I just..." he stopped himself before he went on. "It's not  
important."

She waited for a moment before giving him a soft smile and nodding. "Well, I'm going to finish  
typing up the Ranes plea deal. Don't forget a bunch of us are heading to Rosa Mexicana for a little  
Friday fiesta after work. You told me you'd come."

"Did I?" he asked with a smirk, chuckling at the unimpressed look on his paralegal's pretty face.

"Then I guess I will."

"It will be fun," she promised.

Ian nodded. "Tell everyone not to be so goddamn weird when I show up, okay? Last time they  
acted like I was the Principal and they were in detention."

"You're kind of a big deal, Mr. Assistant District Attorney," Mandy replied with a click of her  
tongue.

"That 'assistant' in my title disagrees with you," he joked, taking a sip of his latte.

"Yeah, well, maybe you'll be dropping it soon." She gave him a wink before making her way  
back to her desk.

Settling into his seat, he fired up his laptop and scrolled through his never ending list of emails to  
make sure nothing needed urgent attention. It was business as usual until a message from the  
District Attorney caught his eye. Scrambling to pick up his receiver, he dialed Rodney's extension  
and tapped his fingers anxiously as he waited for him to answer.

"Gallagher," the gruff voice greeted. "I'm assuming you got my email. What do you think?"

"I think I'm confused why you're giving the Oliver case to me," Ian replied. "It's going to be a  
circus, tons of national attention, press, all of it."

"Are you calling me an attention whore?" Rodney teased with a hearty laugh.

"No," Ian lied. "You just love those big cases. Why would you pass it down to me?"

"I'm tired. I told you I was winding down and you told me I was full of shit. Do you believe me  
now? I'm on my way out, kid."

"Like death?" the younger man asked surprised.

"Retirement, Numbskull," Rodney corrected. "Everyone thinks I won't get pull the trigger, but I'm  
close. Six months. I can only give it another six. Prove yourself on this one and you're it."

"Wow," Ian breathed, taken aback by the revelation. "So Oliver's mine."

"Yup and you have to promise me you'll ruin him," he added. "Send that hypocrite to rot."

"I'll get him."

"Ruin him," Rodney said emphatically. "Not just get him, ruin him. This needs the energy of  
youth because you have to tear his limbs off and beat him with them."

"Rod, this is, like, a high level of intensity to deal with before I've even finished my coffee."

"Well, suck it up, Buttercup, you're about to go to war with a religion."

"Going to war with Oliver isn't going to war with Christianity," Ian retorted. "Come on."

"I never said it was Christianity. The Faith Redeemer Evangelical Church is the religion you're  
going to war with and they follow the word of Matthew Oliver more than they ever did Jesus.  
Believe that," Rodney informed him. "You're about to make some enemies."

"That's just a typical day at the prosecutors' office isn't it?" Ian said lightly, though he could feel  
his heart pounding with a heavy beat.

“Whatever you say,” Rod replied.

“So, this,” he looked at the email on his screen to make sure he got the name correct, “Detective  
Mavanelli… he’s expecting me today?”

“He sure is. You don’t have to call. He’ll be at his desk all day, pushing papers and awaiting your  
arrival. He has a file as thick as pea soup for you. You didn’t have any plans for this weekend did  
you?” he asked with a chuckle. “I mean, it’s you so…”

“I’m not sure if you’re laughing because you’re going to be teeing off at the Hamptons while I’m  
slaving away at my desk or because you know damn well that I don’t have any plans,” Ian  
replied, cringing at the fact that his lack of a social life was such common knowledge.

“Oh don’t be so sensitive, Gallagher. I was plugging away at your age, too. Lying on the beach  
and bedding socialites or,” he took a moment, “whatever the gay equivalent is - that doesn’t get  
you to the top, spending weekends in the office does.”

“Well, I’m definitely not lying on the beach.”

“And look how successful you are! If I were you, I’d give yourself some plans on Sunday  
morning.”

“Let me guess, at the Faith Redeemer Evangelical Church.”

“Ding ding ding,” Rodney replied. “He won’t be leading the service, but I’d try to understand the  
lay of the land, check out the scene, all that good stuff.”

“I’ll be there.”

“I’ll play 18 holes in your honor.”

Ian laughed. “Sounds good. Have a nice weekend.”

“And may yours be productive,” Rodney said before he hung up the phone.

Slinging his bag over his shoulder and grabbing his drink, Ian headed out of his office to Mandy’s  
desk. “We’re going on a field trip.”

The paralegal raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow and asked, “Where to?”

“NYPD.”

“About Ranes? I’m almost done. I thought we were solid on the plea.”

He shook his head and watched as Mandy saved the document on her computer and pulled her  
purse out of her drawer. “About Matthew Oliver.”

“The killer Televangelist?” she asked skeptically. It took mere seconds for her to recognize why  
and when she did, her sapphire eyes grew wide. “You got his case?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow.”

“That was my reaction,” Ian stated, still in awe of the responsibility. “This will probably be one of  
the biggest cases of our careers.”

“Wait,” Mandy said, holding up her hand. “You’re going to keep me on your desk?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“I’ve only been here for like,” she counted in her head, “two months. You trust me on this? This is  
make it or break it for you. I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to work with Rachel or Evan,  
someone with more experience. I’m grateful that you let me learn from you on Ranes and  
Gottlieb, but this is… major.”

“I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that you’re good at your job, Ms. Milkovich,” he  
said with a grin. “There will be lots of hands and eyes on this one, but I want yours there too.”

“I’m flattered,” she said honestly, “and nervous.”

“That makes two of us,” Ian promised. “So, what are your plans for the weekend?”

“I was going to head out to the Hamptons with Andrew and my brother, but I’m guessing I’m not  
going to be doing that?”

“Maybe next weekend?” he offered, with a conciliatory smile.

“I’m not worried about it,” she promised. “We have work to do.”

That they did.

Chapter Two: Lifestyles of the Rich and Not So Famous

On Friday nights, Mickey let loose. Regardless of how busy his week was, and there hadn't been  
one that wasn't jam-packed since he was 16, he always had a cold one in his hand and a clear  
mind by weekend time. Over the years, the porch parties of his youth had turned to Hamptons  
gatherings, but whether he drank it out of cans or crystal, the beer always tasted the same.  
He grew up in Brooklyn, years before hipsters discovered the borough was cool; back when the  
streets were actually mean, and not because Manhattanites ruled them. There wasn't room for  
snobbery when survival was much more imperative.

Failure to thrive hadn't been a term that could describe him since his mother was too coked out to  
feed him properly as an infant. It took a few trips to juvenile detention facilities in his early teens to  
teach him that he had the capacity to succeed. Though it would seem more likely that being  
incarcerated would make a kid feel worse about themselves, Mickey found that it was a better  
environment than his house had been.

Juvie had provided him with therapy that he had taken surprisingly well. Instead of perseverating  
on how bizarre it was to spill his guts to a stranger, he focused on the way it made him feel, and  
felt good to be heard. He wondered if there was some injustice to keeping his clients out of prison,  
if maybe somehow they'd be rehabilitated if they went in, the same way he had been. Still, it was  
better for business to help them fuck the system, even if in the end they were somehow fucking  
themselves.

There was a difference between the petty crimes of his youth and the actions of the people who  
hired him. He wasn't deluded enough to believe his clients where innocent. After all, he was at the  
top of the game and the people who were desperate enough to pay his fees typically knew that the  
evidence was stacked against them.

It hadn't always been about the money. While every other member of his cohort at Yale chased  
prestige and riches by going into politics or business law, Mickey was wrapped up in his idealism,  
wanting to change kids' lives by providing them with a competent public defender; a luxury he  
never had in his youth. He went into criminal defense because he thought he could make a  
difference and stayed in the specialty even when he realized he couldn't. Amassing a greater  
amount of wealth, and experiencing less disappointment, kept him content enough with his career  
and allowed him the emotional distance he needed to unwind with a beer on Friday nights, not  
caring about what happened hours or days before.

As was the case most weekends from May to September, Mickey found himself in Andrew’s  
Southampton yard, watching the sun begin its descent below the horizon, taking a dip in the sea  
while painting the cotton candy clouds the colors of strawberries and apricots. The smell of salt  
and charcoal permeated the air, as neighboring balconies came alive with activity after the long  
winter’s hibernation.

The house itself was warm; the quintessential colonial revival, stately enough to be impressive, but  
not overwhelmingly so. Flanked with daffodil yellow wood clapboard and double hung windows  
galore, it was flooded with cheerful light during the day and settled with the soothing sounds of  
lapping waves when all had quieted at night.

“Mandy’s not going to make it,” Andrew stated, pushing the French doors open so he could join  
his best friend as he lounged on a chaise beside the pool.

“Oh,” Mickey acknowledged, clearly not as concerned about his sister’s whereabouts as her  
boyfriend was.

“Don’t you want to know why?”

“Not really,” he replied honestly, taking a drag of the cigarette that was dangling from his tattooed  
fingers, “but it seems like you want to tell me.”

“Well, you know how she’s on the ADA’s desk?”

Mickey gave the blond haired man an impassive look and blew a plume of smoke in his direction.  
“It’s all she’s talked about for the last two months, so yeah, I know.”

Andrew overdramatically waved the fumes away from his face and gave his laughing friend the  
finger. “Anyway,” he said, choosing to ignore the lack of interest Mickey was exhibiting. “He  
was given the Matthew Oliver murder case, so they’re going to be busy all weekend.”

“And will you survive?’” the brunet questioned with a smirk, blue eyes full of challenge.

“I’ll try to get by,” Andrew replied. “Maybe you can give me advice on how to go about sleeping  
by myself since you’re so used to it?”

“By choice,” Mickey reminded him. “It’s not that I never have company, it’s that I always kick  
them out before there’s any chance of cuddling or shit like that.”

“I think you have intimacy issues.”

“I think I don’t give a fuck.”

He grinned at Andrew, who just sighed in response. They sat quietly for a few moments, both  
focusing on the song of the crickets and the sloshing of the tide rather than the razzing tone their  
voices had held.

“Have you given any thought to meeting up with that guy I told you about?”

“Which guy?”

“Do you ever pay attention when I talk to you?”

Mickey shrugged. “It depends what you’re talking about. When it’s blind dates with Dockers-wearing college Republicans, I don’t.”

“Who said he wears Dockers?” Andrew asked with a shit eating grin.

“Like that was the part that really got to me,” he chuckled, shaking his head at his friend’s  
selective statement.

“Well, he’s friends with Caroline, so he’s probably pretty Liberal.”

“Since when is your sister anything but a Reagan cockslut?”

“Can you not call my sister a ‘cockslut’?”

“You bang mine,” Mickey stated, raising his eyebrows. “So, fair game.”

“Whatever. I think it all started when she chose NYU law school instead of Yale,” Andrew said,  
taking a swig of his Stella. “It’s been downhill from there. They’re sucking all the Hancock out of  
her.”

“As if your last name didn’t give me enough openings, you just slid in with that one.”

Andrew winked. “You have to admit, I’m kind of funny.”

“For a Republican maybe,” he teased, pushing out a deep belch. There were few things Mickey  
loved more than giving his friend shit about just about anything he could, and Andrew provided  
him with a never ending slew of opportunities.

“Charming.”

“Eat my asshole,” Mickey retorted.

“It’s been awhile I guess,” Andrew mused with a click of his tongue. “Let’s get you laid.  
Caroline’s friend’s name is Connor and he wants to meet you.”

“He doesn’t know shit about me.”

“There’s this thing called Social Media, it’s all the rage these days. You have profiles, where you  
put pictures of your smug face. I guess he liked what he saw when Cari showed him.”

“And he’s in school with her? Is he a second year, too?” The idea of hooking up with a law  
student hadn’t been appealing when he was in law school, and it certainly wasn’t now. He found  
lawyers too goddamn self-assured for their own good, excepting himself of course. He was just  
the right amount of cocky.

“I think so.”

“Too young.”

“31 to 23 maybe 24, that’s only like,” he paused as he did the calculations, “6 or 7 years.”

“For a motherfucker in finance, that shit took you too long,” Mickey pointed out.

“Yeah, well luckily I work for my dad.”

“You finally admit the nepotism,” he said proudly.

“Was there any hiding it?” Andrew asked with a smirk.

“You tried back in college.”

“Yeah, well you saw right through that and told me about it nonstop like the prick you are.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t punch you in the face that first week of freshman year, with your labeled  
socks and rules. Fucking nerd.”

“I love when we reminisce,” he said with a nostalgic sigh. “The story of us: From college roomies  
to future brother-in-laws.”

“Hmm?” Mickey hummed, turning to look at his friend who had a wide smile on his face. “Are  
you asking me or telling me?”

“That’s an antiquated practice, Mick.”

“If we had a father would you ask him?”

“You do have a father.”

Mickey couldn’t contend with the fact that biologically that was the case, but as far as he was  
concerned, Terry had never been anything more than a sperm donor that spent most of their  
childhood abusing them or in prison. Though he was only a few years older than Mandy, having a  
dead mother and a waste of life for a father had put him in the position of taking care of her, so he  
always had. “Well I know you sure as shit aren’t going to go to Rikers to ask the dickhead, so if  
had a father who was around, would you ask him?”

“Probably,” he admitted.

“Then fucking ask permission, you asshole.”

Andrew rolled his eyes and dropped to his knees on the pavers beside Mickey’s chair.

“Get up, unless you’re getting down there to suck my dick. Be serious. Ask me like a man.” He  
gave his friend the same mischievous smile Andrew had grown used to seeing throughout their  
relationship and brought his cigarette back to his upturned lips.

The blond sighed and sat on the edge of the lounger so he could look his best friend in the eyes. “I  
love Mandy. I’ve been crazy about her for the last five years and I plan to be obsessed with her for  
the rest of our lives. Do I have your permission to marry her?”

“No,” Mickey said simply. “I don’t think so.” Knocking his knuckle against the side of his nostril,  
he stared at the crestfallen blond, waiting for his next move.

“You don’t think so?” Andrew asked dubiously. “Really?”

He nodded.

“And why don’t you think so?” he pressed.

“Because you got a fucked up last name. Amanda Hancock? You have to change that shit. I don’t  
want my sister having ‘cock’ in her name.”

“But you love cock,” Andrew offered, grinning when Mickey laughed and gave him the double  
bird salute. “I think you love it as much as I love Mandy.”

“Shit, that’s deep, man.” He stood up, intent on getting another beer. “You love her that much?”  
“I do.”

“You think you’re gonna put in your vows? I love you as much as your brother loves cock?”

“If it’ll get you to say ‘yes,’ I will,” he joked as Mickey tussled his hair.

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Yeah.”

“So, I officially have the permission I didn’t know I needed until ten minutes ago?”

“Yup, but you gotta promise to always treat her right and love her dick level for the rest of your  
miserable lives.”

“I’ll love her dick level.”

“Good,” he decided as started to walk towards the door. “Since you’re so agreeable, can I tell Caroline   
you’ll meet up with Connor this weekend? They’re staying at my parents' place.”

“You probably already did because you’re a twat like that.”

“I did,” he confirmed, able to see Mickey’s annoyance even though there was distance between  
them. “Cari said he’s cute and he likes you, what’s wrong with giving him a chance?”

“Marriage off. You’re not allowed anymore,” he called as he made his way to the kitchen.

“No take backs. I’m going to love her to dick for life,” he yelled back, awkwardly waving to his  
neighbors who were walking on the beach just beyond his deck.

When his friend didn’t answer, Andrew sniffed uncomfortably and pulled his phone out of his  
pocket to tell Caroline that ‘Operation: Mickey and Connor’ was a go. He just hoped it was a  
success, for his sake and Mickey’s.

Chapter Three: Bagels, Pee & Tigey

Organized religion had never been an ideology that Ian subscribed to. Growing up in the  
predominantly Catholic city of Pittsburgh, he'd often found that people assumed he had some level  
of religious affiliation due to the color of his hair and the strong Irish ties of his last name. His  
parents had done their best to indoctrinate him via baptism and CCD, but he found that there was  
nothing compelling enough about Catholicism to keep him. Though he’d always respected his  
parents and been a rule follower, he accepted the laws of the land to be his guide rather than an  
ambiguous text about morals that left enough space for interpretation and led many to pervert its  
words.

Luckily, neither his father or mother were zealots. They were Christmas Catholics, who attempted  
to propagate the teachings as a way to assuage familial pressure from the older generations. Ian's  
lack of interest hadn't been disconcerting to them, but that wasn't to say they weren't glad when  
Jacob took to religion eagerly. As similar as he and his younger brother looked, they couldn't have  
been more different. While Ian was cautious, determined and introverted, Jacob was a risk-taking,  
loud mouthed extrovert, who probably had only liked the Church thanks to his participation in  
youth group. Even though Jacob was two years his junior, Ian had always envied the way he'd  
easily navigated life. He was perpetually the life of the party, while Ian spent most of his time in  
social situations leaning against a door frame, observing.

Sometimes, despite himself, Ian wished he'd been born straight like Jacob was. Everything seemed  
so much simpler for him. His little brother had followed in his footsteps and applied early decision  
to Penn. He was a junior when Jacob entered his freshman year, and he couldn't help but be in  
awe of how much more natural the whole college experience had been for the outgoing Gallagher.  
He'd rushed a fraternity and met his future wife, all within the first few months of school. While  
Ian was trying to find some anonymous, no-strings attached sex in the Gayborhood, his brother  
had laid the foundation for the rest of his life. Nine years after arriving at Penn, Jacob was settled  
in a swanky Philadelphia suburb with his Southern pageant queen wife Lily, and their two perfect  
children, Reese and Luke. It was often difficult for Ian to avoid comparing their circumstances,  
especially when he was pining for the guy who boxed up his takeout orders and going to bed  
alone.

Though Ian had woken up that morning without his arms wrapped around someone, he was glad  
to have a companion for breakfast.

"I’m sorry I’m late,” Mandy apologized, harried as she scraped the legs of the metal chair over the  
concrete floor of the bagel shop and plopped herself down. Exhaling sharply, she attempted to  
smooth down her windblown bangs while simultaneously placing the leather handles of her  
Longchamp bag on the purse hook.

“Rough morning?” Ian asked, leaning down to pick up the sunglasses that had fallen off Mandy’s  
head. She sighed a ‘thank you’ and placed them in her bag. Pushing one of the two coffees on the  
table towards her, Ian gave the frazzled woman a sympathetic grin. “This should help.”

“You’re a Godsend,” she informed him with a smirk.

“I see what you did there,” he laughed, pointing a finger at her amused face.

“Well, we’re godly today, right?”

“I’m guessing you don’t usually spend your Sunday mornings going to church?”

Mandy shook her head. “I typically spend them at Spin or lounging by the pool at Andrew’s  
Hamptons place.”

“You know, I’ve never been to the Hamptons,” Ian stated, taking a sip of his coffee. “I’ve lived  
here for seven years and I haven’t gone once.”

“Really?” she asked surprised. “I mean, it’s not like I hung out there before I met Andrew, but I  
wasn’t fancy like you are.”

“I’m fancy?” Ian inquired with a chuckle. “Since when?”

“I’m guessing since birth.”

“Is fancy a euphemism for gay?”

“No, fancy is fancy and gay is gay,” she corrected simply. “My brother’s gay. He’s not fancy.”

“How am I fancy?”

“First of all, you’re the ADA, that’s fancy as fuck.”

“All of a sudden government jobs are luxurious?” he asked amused.

“It’s all about the power and prestige. Andrew talks to the mayor because they run in the same  
circles, you talk to the mayor because you have something to say, you see what I mean? Like,  
you’re legit fancy, not just money fancy.”

“But I’ve never been to the Hamptons so am I just pseudo-fancy now?”

“No, but we’ll have to fix that soon,” Mandy decided with a smile. “Are we eating? I’m eating.  
What do want?” she asked, grabbing her wallet out of her purse.

“You don’t have to…” he began, reaching for his own.

“You got me coffee.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“Well, you’re taking me to this beautiful church service this morning. It’s truly the least I can do,”  
she joked. “What’s it going to be?”

“Bacon, egg and cheese on sesame,” Ian answered reluctantly, knowing that Mandy wasn’t going  
to back down. After all, that’s what he liked the most about her. He watched as she made her way  
up to the counter to order. Though he’d only known her for a short period of time, in a mostly  
professional capacity, he couldn’t help but feel warm towards her. She was more outspoken that  
many of the other people he worked with, but she always made her points in a way that was  
respectful and astute. While he didn’t know much about her personal life beside some of the key  
features, he did know that she’d had a tough childhood, and it inspired him that she rose above it  
and bettered her circumstances. “Did you say your brother’s gay?” Ian asked, when she returned  
with their breakfast. A male version of Mandy sounded extremely appealing to say the least.

“I did.” She took a big bite of her pumpernickel bagel, so big a bite that if Ian didn’t know better,  
he would’ve thought she was purposely avoiding the conversation.

“You’ve talked about him before, but you’ve never mentioned he was gay.”

“Mmmhmm,” she hummed, avoiding eye contact.

“Why?” he questioned skeptically.

“He’s a dick. I didn’t want you to want me to hook you up with him because I’m so awesome.  
You would be so disappointed. Plus, he’s gay but he’s not like, how do I put this,” she paused and  
swallowed the bagel that was still in her mouth, “I’m trying to figure out how to say this in a way  
that isn’t offensive.”

“You’re not going to offend me,” Ian promised, narrowing his eyes. “What is it?”

“He’s into cock gay, but he’s not like kiss-and-hold-hands gay. He likes to bang dudes but he’s  
aromantic.”

“Aromantic?”

She nodded. “It’s an actual thing. He just doesn’t experience romantic attraction.”

“Was this diagnosed by a doctor?”

“No, well, I don’t know, probably not. It’s my diagnosis.”

“You forgot to put on your resume that you were a psychologist,” he teased with a click of his  
tongue. “Aromantic, huh?”

“Yeah, and I’m guessing you’re super romantic.”

“With who?” he laughed.

“Maybe Shaan,” Mandy said, practically singing his crush’s name. “If you go for it.”

“I’m going to.”

She pursed her lips. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

"You'll see it," Ian assured her. He cleared his throat, intent on changing the subject. "So, what  
happened this morning?"

"I've told you how much I hate Andrew's cat, haven't I?"

"Tigey," he said with a nod. "You tell me that a lot."

"That little motherfucker pissed in my black flats, but not just one pair. He pissed in the left foot of  
my Tory Burch's and the right of my Gucci's."

Ian grimaced. "It could've been worse, right? He could've pissed in all of them."

Mandy shook her head. "This is way worse. He was asserting his pussy power. He wanted to  
prove what wily bastard he is."

Trying to stifle the laugh he knew Mandy would appreciate, Ian took his last bite. "I think he  
knows you hate him. He's acting out because he doesn't feel loved."

"Fuck that muff, he can choke," she exclaimed, loud enough to draw the attention of some other  
patrons.

"Let's go get you absolved of your sins," Ian suggested with a smile, crumpling their empty  
wrappers and tossing them into the trash.

During their two block walk to The Faith Redeemer Evangelical Church, Mandy complained  
about her feline nemesis and Ian listened dutifully, tickled by her entertaining delivery.  
The building was hulking and more modern than Ian expected, composed mostly of glass and  
steel. Though the facility was bright upon entry, the mood of the congregation was anything but.  
Most of the churchgoers were wearing black, which made Mandy, in her white collared shirt and  
khaki skirt, stick out like a sore thumb.

"I would've worn black if the beast didn't pee on my shoes," she whispered sharply, letting out a  
huff. "They're still mourning."

Ian placed a hand on Mandy's elbow and shushed her, gesturing very discretely to two older  
women and a 20-something-year old man standing a few yards away. Though there was no  
formal receiving line, and the funeral for Tyler Parks had already passed, it seemed most members  
were making an effort to give their condolences and lend support. "On the right," he began  
quietly, "the woman holding the tissues to her eyes, that's Parks' mother. He was very involved in  
the Church, so it doesn't surprise me she's still attending."

Mandy nodded, frowning at the sight of the grieving woman. "And the other lady?"

"Matthew Oliver's wife," Ian replied. "Strange," he noted, observing as she rubbed the back of the  
woman whose son her husband was accused of murdering.

"I guess Parks' mom doesn't think he's guilty?" Mandy suggested. "And the guy?"

"I think that's Oliver's son, Simon," he answered, noticing how uncomfortable the man seemed to  
be with the attention he was receiving.

"How do they stand next to each other after everything that supposedly happened?" Mandy  
mused, following Ian, who was trailing behind the masses that were making their way into the  
football field-sized sanctuary.

"There has to be more to the story," he stated. "Or maybe they're just so used to following like  
sheep that they can't see beyond the wool that's been pulled over their eyes. Maybe they like  
having it there, it makes it easier to ignore things."

"What type of things?" she wondered, pulling a hymnal out of the holder in front of her so he  
could flip through it.

"I'm not sure yet," he answered honestly, thinking it would make his job a lot easier if he was.

Ian spent the entirety of the service inconspicuously typing notes into his phone, attempting to  
document any moments or movements that caught his eye. Though he wasn't a detective, and  
nothing he discovered would be admissible in court, he had to do all he could to collect the puzzle  
pieces to put together the full story. No matter how good he was, he had to be prepared for the  
defense attorney to be better, and that meant being ready for anything. Little did Ian know that  
Matthew Oliver's attorney was going to throw him for a loop in more ways than one.

Chapter Four: Names, Brains, and They're All the Same

Dating had never been a practice that Mickey eagerly participated in. Sure, he'd gone out with  
some guys here and there, but even then, it was bro-style beers at a bar followed by some nonplatonic fucking.   
If the sex was good enough, he'd hit them up again and find himself  
disappointed when they suggested dinner or a movie before they banged. He didn't know when  
causal encounters fell off and gave way to marriage auditions, but it seemed like every dude he  
met wanted to tie him down, and not in a fun way. Mickey realized, however, that it was his own  
fault he was often in the relationship negotiation predicament. While he was into having no-strings  
attached sex, he really wanted it with the same people he already fucked around with. Constantly  
having to meet new people on apps, pretty much guaranteed the sex wouldn't be as hot because  
they wouldn't have the intimate knowledge of the other's body. All he wanted was a friend he  
could fuck all the time, who didn't anything emotionally in return.

He wasn't sure why he didn't seek a deeper connection, why he was wired not to give a shit.  
Sometimes he wished he didn't care about sex either. If he had no desire to get laid on a regular  
basis, he could avoid the social aspect entirely and go about his business not strained by anyone's  
expectations outside of the courtroom. The thought of having to consider another person's feelings  
and anticipate their needs turned him off immensely. He wasn’t about to cosset a grown-ass man  
like he was a puppy.

It seemed unnatural to worry about anyone more than he worried about himself. The only person  
he ever came close to caring that much about was his sister, who probably didn’t need it in the first  
place. He and Mandy had both learned how to survive on their own early in life. He knew that  
everyone had issues that were valid and impactful to them, but he wasn’t interested in fucking  
with theirs when he had enough of his own.

Regardless of how much he hated the process of quasi-dating, he found himself pulling open the  
door to Gig Shack in Montauk for a late afternoon lunch with Connor before heading back to the  
city.

"Mickey?" a sexy man with brown hair and chestnut bedroom eyes asked as he approached him.

"Yeah," Mickey replied, clearing his throat as he attempted not to stare at him wantonly, the way  
he felt compelled to.

"Connor," he introduced, extending his hand. "You're even better looking in person."

"That sounds like a pickup line," Mickey stated, rubbing his knuckle against his nostril as he  
glanced down at how the other man's jeans looked to be painted onto his toned thighs.

"Good. It was," Connor said in a tone tinged with mischief.

Licking his lips, Mickey peeled his eyes away and asked, "So are we gonna get a table or what?"

As they followed the hostess to a corner booth in the back of the restaurant he tried to stop himself  
from thinking about what was going to go down after the meal... or better yet, who.

"Have you been here before?" Connor asked as they perused the menu.

"I don't date," the older man informed him dryly, surprised when he earned a laugh from the law  
student's lips.

"But you eat, right?" he teased with a smirk. "Could've come to eat."

"I worry more about cumming than eating," Mickey said, grinning at the fact that the response  
took Connor by surprise.

"So this all a formality to get in my pants?"

"I didn't say that," Mickey pointed out. "Didn't even know what you looked like until ten minutes  
ago and I never told you I liked what I see"

"But you do," Connor stated confidently. "It's not hard to see that you do."

"All I heard was 'it's not hard' and I'm thinking about ways I can get it there," he admitted, biting  
his lower lip as focused on Connor's.

"You're not interested in getting to know me are you?" Connor asked, narrowing his eyes at his  
date, who quickly turned his attention back to the menu.

"You're hot, alright? I'm not gonna deny that, but I'm not looking for anything serious."

"Since when are lobster rolls serious," he ventured, looking at Mickey expectantly. "Hmm? Do  
you want to know if you're getting fucked after we eat? You are. How about you pretend to  
actually give a shit about what I have to say now?"

It was Mickey's turn to be shocked. He tried to formulate words as best he could but was  
interrupted by the waiter greeting them and asking for their drink orders.

"I go to NYU," Connor stated, once the server walked away. "I'm in my second year of law  
school."

"I know."

"You asked about me?"

"A.J. told me," Mickey corrected, grinning when he felt Connor's hand rest on his knee.

"How do you know Andrew?"

"You already know how I know him. Cari probably told you."

To Mickey, the only thing worse than meaningless small talk, was meaningless small talk about  
his life. It wasn’t as though he wanted to delve into politics or religion with Connor. He mostly  
just wanted the other man to talk so he could nod his head as if he was interested, then get head,  
and head the fuck back to Manhattan.

"Humor me," Connor suggested, sliding his hand up higher.

"We were roommates for our freshman year at Yale. He bought his way there and I busted my ass  
but we both got drunk enough to piss our beds so it all evened out."

"You have a way with words."

Mickey shrugged. "I also got a way with my tongue."

"What's my name?"

"What do you mean?" the older man asked incredulously.

"How was that a hard question?" Connor asked raising an eyebrow. "Two syllables. What's my  
name?"

"Connor," Mickey replied plainly. "Your name's Connor. You're a second year law student at  
NYU who probably wants to go into real estate law so you can work for your dad, who's buying  
and gentrifying streets in the Bronx."

"You have me all figured out, huh?" he challenged. "You're right about one thing though. I'm a  
second year law student at NYU."

"And other than that?"

"Ask," Connor prompted. "If you want to know, ask."

Their eyes were fixed on each other when the waiter approached to take their order. Glad for the  
interruption, Mickey decided to inquire, uncharacteristically, about menu items and ask for  
recommendations before settling on a cheeseburger and fries. Connor, on the other hand, very  
confidently ordered the Lamborghinis, which caused the older man to scoff and prepare to razz  
him as soon as the server walked away.

"Really?" he laughed.

"What?" Connor narrowed his eyes defensively. "I like lamb."

"It's a stupid fucking name."

"I didn't name them. I think your name's stupid," he shot back.

"Oh yeah?" Mickey asked, amused. "Why's that?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

Licking his lips before taking a sip of his beer, Mickey shrugged, unfazed by the teasing. “So  
what type of law are you interested in then? Corporate? Tax? Intellectual Property?”

"I’m thinking Entertainment.” Connor replied, asking “What?” when the older man shook his  
head.

“You’re on that Ari Gold shit,” he noted with a smirk. “Do you think you’re gonna practice or are  
you just gonna become an agent?”

“You have a funny way of flirting,” Connor stated.

“Am I flirting?”

“Are you?”

“I didn’t think I was, but if I am, is it working?” Mickey asked, lifting his eyebrows. He always  
thought it was bizarre that most guys took his brashness as a sign that he was playing hard to get  
and not an indication that he wasn’t playing at all. It seemed that no matter how cold he was to  
them, they always came in hot.

“Probably,” Connor admitted with a smile.

“Then I’m flirting,” Mickey decided, grinning when the other man’s hand made its way back to  
his thigh and inched close to his crotch.

When their food arrived, they ate predominately in silence, which was quite alright with Mickey,  
who appreciated the quiet much more than the banter. There was no denying that Connor was a  
good looking guy. His eyes were dark and mysterious and there was a brooding quality to his face  
that he found intriguing, but Connor was just like every other lawyer or lawyer wannabe he’d  
banged, and he’d fucked a lot of them. It was evident that the student thought he was the smartest  
guy in the room and that he was intent on worming his way into Mickey’s head as much as his  
pants. He’d been with men who challenged him before. It wasn’t a novel concept that a lawyer  
would be an asshole, after all, he could relate. As arousing as the chase could be, he often didn’t  
give a shit enough to pick up his pace, and the few times he had, it was all very anticlimactic when  
they got past the initial climax.

The thing about Connor was he thought he was different. They all did, and they never were. He’d  
be enjoyable for a while and then he’d catch feelings. He’d start asking why Mickey didn’t call or  
text. He’d want to talk about the direction of the relationship that Mickey didn’t realize he was in.  
He’d think the sex was good enough to keep him, make him commit and it wouldn’t be, it never  
could be. Eventually, he’d get added to the long list of guys who hated him because they liked  
him so much. Mickey was convinced that anybody who said women were the more complicated  
sex hadn’t hooked up with a man.

“So, why did you decide to go into defense? It seems like an unlikely choice for a guy who  
graduated from the top law school in the country.”

“Oh yeah? That’s the first time I’ve heard that,” Mickey stated dryly, draining his glass. “Don’t  
worry about it.”

“I’m not judging you, I’m just curious,” Connor assured him, studying his date’s face.

“I’m good at it.”

“I bet you are. I mean, I hear you are,” he said, allowing his eyes to fall to full smirking lips.

“And I like to get people off.”

Connor exhaled sharply, running his tongue over his teeth. “How often do you use that line?”

“Do you really want to know?” Mickey asked with an impish grin.

“Does it always work?”

“Always,” he confirmed, as Connor finally moved his palm up to the bulge in his pants and  
cradled his fingers around its outline. “You ready to go?” he asked, reaching across the table for  
the bill.

“You don’t have to get it,” the younger man said, removing his hand so he could grab his wallet  
out of his back pocket.

Mickey wasn’t sure if Connor was doing the move where he feigned willingness to pay the bill,  
but as far as he was concerned, he better have actually come with cash and the readiness to throw  
it down. “I wasn’t going to,” he assured him, with a click of his tongue. Peeling a $50 bill out, he  
tossed it on the table and slid the check towards Connor. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

“And what idea would that be?” Connor asked, clearly entertained by his date’s attitude.

“That I buy dick. I get that shit for free,” he replied, adjusting himself as he climbed out the booth.  
He could feel a pair of brown eyes focused on his ass as he led the way out of the restaurant.

As they hooked up in the guest house of the Hancock family’s Hamptons home, Mickey couldn’t  
help but think of how bad traffic was going to be the longer it took to get off, so though he was  
enjoying it enough, he expedited the process, telling Connor he’d see him again soon, not yet  
convinced he would.

Chapter Five: Matthew Oliver is a D*ck

Ian could think of better ways to spend a Sunday afternoon than sitting in front of his laptop,  
looking up the Bible verses the associate pastor had referenced during his sermon earlier that day.  
While he'd done his best to pay attention to every word, it was nearly impossible to do so and  
allow his eyes to take in his surroundings. He'd dutifully typed the book and numbers into his  
notes, intent on digging deeper when he could, hoping he'd be able to understand the Church's  
mindset.

It was difficult to consider the emotions of an organization that didn't consider him at all. The Faith  
Redeemer Evangelical Church was not a fan of gay, lesbian, transgender, bisexual, pansexual, or  
queer people. The only DNA pattern they approved of was one that built a person into a  
heterosexual. To them, romantic love could only exist between a man and woman and it wasn’t a  
disparate viewpoint from the Catholic Church Ian grew up in, though the homophobia had always  
been quieter there.

It wasn’t just his sexuality that caused him to pull away from religion, it was primarily Lamarck’s  
Theory of Transmutation of a Species and Darwin’s New Evolutionary Theory. If the universe  
could be explained by organisms changing over time and mutations in their genetic codes, he  
couldn’t find space in his mind for the belief in Creation. The more time he spent researching  
evolution, the less he found himself able to believe that there was a greater being, especially one  
whose words were twisted into condoning hatred towards people like him. He found solace in the  
idea that religion was a man-made phenomenon, preying off fear of the unknown.  
His research had settled Ian comfortably into his beliefs, but that didn’t stop Jacob from trying to  
shake the foundation of his abstention with debate. Years of the same argument had exhausted  
them both, but still, they impotently attempted to sway the other’s thoughts. Stubbornness was a  
Gallagher trait and though neither would move, they continued to push. Jacob wanted Ian to admit  
that without a higher being, the organisms in the universe and the solar system itself would fail to  
exist. When Ian referenced the Speck of Interstellar Dust or, more recently, the Big Bang theory,  
Jacob would ask him who created the dust or when he became an Astrophysicist, to which Ian  
would inquire about when his brother became Jesus. The conversation typically ended with two  
freckled faces flushing red with frustration, while their mother or Jacob’s wife implored them to  
stop talking about the topic. The strong-willed brothers would agree, until one of them brought it  
up again months later, looking for a fight.

As much as he had strayed from religion, he couldn’t deny how much he enjoyed watching his  
niece and nephew’s eyes light up on Christmas morning, or how cute they were participating in  
their church’s holiday pageants. Though Lily and Jacob lived in Philadelphia, he made an effort to  
go to as many of Reese and Luke’s events as possible. Being that they were only five and   
three-years-old respectively, most of those happenings were related to their church preschool and thus  
non-secular. It did give him comfort to know that his brother and sister-in-law would raise their  
children to be much more supportive of the LGBTQ community than the children growing up in  
the Faith Redeemer Evangelical Church would.

If it were up to Ian, homicide wouldn’t be the only crime that Matthew Oliver would be tried for.  
The televangelist had inspired countless hate crimes with his vial vitriol of homosexual people.  
Oliver’s reach was far and wide, with his televised Sunday morning services and regular  
appearances on news outlets where he spewed hatred wrapped in Bible verses. Ian couldn’t help  
but be surprised that the preacher had managed to gain such a large following in the uber liberal  
New York City and had somehow parlayed that success into a global brand. Millions of people  
followed him on social media, hanging onto every one of his disparaging words. He stood upon a  
platform of love and acceptance, while being a propagandist for hostility towards people who  
were just trying to live their lives in peace and equality. The hypocrisy was jarring and Ian wasn’t  
sure how so many people could look past it or think it wasn’t there to begin with.  
Taking a break from searching the verses referenced in the associate pastor’s sermon, Ian found  
himself falling down the rabbit hole of Matthew Oliver videos on YouTube and immediately  
regretting his rapid descent. He clicked on the title ‘The Best Defense of Marriage by Matthew  
Oliver’ and felt his blood boil as soon as the grey haired man began to speak:

_Brothers and sisters, we are in the battle of our lifetime right now and we cannot lay down our  
swords or become less vigilant. The mainstream media wants you people to believe that the gays  
are the being persecuted in terms of the constitutional right to marry, but it is sanctity of marriage  
itself, and those who believe in it, that are under attack. Though we try, we are unable to convert  
heathens into civilized men. What these animals do in their bedroom is out of our control, but we  
have the power to stop the abomination of our most sacred rights as Christians. It is the Lord  
himself who calls us to duty. Remember, brothers and sisters, it was in Leviticus that he told us  
‘You shall not lie with a male as with a woman; it is an abomination; and ‘If a man lies with a  
male as with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination; they shall surely be put to  
death; their blood is upon them.’ Put to death. There is no room for interpretation. These are the  
words of our Lord and savior, who we pray will deliver those afflicted with this evil and cleanse  
them of their sins. In Corinthians 6:9-10, he said himself that there is no hope. He told us ‘do you  
not know that the unrighteous will not inherit the kingdom of God? Do not be deceived: neither  
the sexually immoral, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor men who practice homosexuality, nor  
thieves, nor the greedy, nor drunkards, nor revilers, nor swindlers will inherit the kingdom of  
God.’ He makes his intentions clear, does he not?  
Now, before all the liberals get up in arms, I’m not saying we should kill the faggots, alright? I’m  
just saying that there is no grey area when it comes to marriage and what it is intended for. Men  
cannot give birth out of their penises. Now I know that is a brash statement, but it is biologically  
true. Marriage is for procreation. If you cannot procreate, you cannot marry. As you know, Sara  
and I struggled to get her pregnant. We prayed and prayed for Simon and eventually, the Lord  
delivered. No matter how much Adam and Steve pray for a child, they will never be blessed with  
one. Again, there no interpretation here, people! The Lord leaves no question when in  
Corinthians 7:2 he says ‘But because of the temptation to sexual immorality, each man should  
have his own wife and each woman her own husband.’ He didn’t tell us that each man should  
have his own husband. He told us that homosexuality was an immoral, abomination and makes it  
clear what the structure of marriage should be. Again, we hear in Mark 10:6-8 quoting Genesis  
2:24, ‘From the beginning of creation, God made them male and female. For this cause, a man  
shall leave his father and mother, and shall cleave to his wife, and the two become one flesh…”  
There is no argument that should convince us otherwise, because these are the words of our Lord.  
He gave us his Commandments and who are we to turn our backs on them under the sham of  
progress. ___

__Unable to stomach another moment, Ian clicked out of the video and lay back on the couch,  
rubbing his forehead with his palm. He struggled to comprehend how a man so exhaustively  
bigoted had achieved any sort of success. Deciding that he needed to take a break before he lost  
his mind, he rolled off the sofa, tied his sneakers on, and walked his block happy to see faces of  
people who weren’t fucking nimrods. Without thought, he found himself headed to see one face in  
particular._ _

__“A Sunday visit?” Shaan noted, the surprised evident on his face. “This is unusual.”_ _

__“Sometimes I like to change it up.”_ _

__“No you don’t. You’re a creature of habit. You never change it up.”_ _

__“Well, I am now. I had a craving,” Ian said, licking his lips as he admired the soft features of his  
crush’s face._ _

__“You see, you had a craving. You may come in on a different day, but you will always order the  
same thing. Shall I tell my father to start your Chicken Tikka Masala?” he teased with a grin._ _

__“Creature of habit.”_ _

__Ian slid his hands into the pockets of his jeans and shook his head amused. “Nah, I’m going to try  
something new. What do you suggest?”_ _

__“Do you like things spicy?”_ _

__“Only in the bedroom,” he joked, watching as Shaan looked down for a moment and got control  
of his grin._ _

__“I assume the same could be said for many men, yes? That’s the place where they enjoy the most  
heat. So, no spice.” He glanced at the menu laminated under the counter, looking for a good  
suggestion. "What about goat?"_ _

__“Babe Ruth is the greatest of all time, right?" Ian asked, smirking as Shaan let out a melodic laugh.  
He was glad that his cursory research into Yankees history was well received._ _

__"It is Joe DiMaggio in my opinion. 'The Great Bambino' was an incredible player, but it is 'The  
Yankee Clipper' who had a 56 game hitting streak and led us to nine World Championships. He  
doesn't get as much hype, but for me he will always be the G.O.A.T."_ _

__"Oh."_ _

__"But many disagree with me," Shaan added quickly._ _

__"I can see where you're coming from," Ian said, no doubt ready to find himself in over his head if  
he continued the discussion. "I think I'll stick with chicken." Noticing the smile on the other man's  
face, he said, "but a really different chicken dish."_ _

__"Okay, a really different chicken dish for Ian, who rejects being called a creature of habit," he  
mused, tapping his fingers against the counter. "You should try the Murgh Malaiwala. It is  
chicken drumsticks laced with cream, milk, rose petals and saffron."_ _

__"Sounds flowery," Ian said, pursing his lips._ _

__"It is very delicate and beautiful," Shaan told him. "It tastes like heaven to me."_ _

__"Alright, I'll try it," he decided, interested to see what the other man liked so much._ _

__"I'll throw in some naan so you can soak up all the gravy. It is my favorite thing to do."_ _

__"Thanks." Ian nodded and watched as he wrote the order out and slid it through the pass to his  
father in the kitchen. "So, I have two tickets to the game on Friday. Would you be interested in  
going? The seats are right on third base."_ _

__Shaan looked at him with bright eyes. "How much would you want for the tickets?"_ _

__"I mean," Ian found himself getting flustered, wondering how he managed to present the date in a  
way that had Shaan confused, "I wouldn't charge you. It would be..."_ _

__"I couldn't take them from you for free," Shaan stated, aghast at the suggestion. "Those are not  
easy tickets to come by. I could give you free meals for the next two months in return?"_ _

__"There's two tickets so..."_ _

__"Three months!" he offered. "That seems more fair. My little brother will be so thrilled. It is worth  
it to see his face."_ _

__Realizing that there was no way to come back from the misunderstanding without mortifying both  
of them, Ian nodded. "Yeah, that sounds good." He listened to Shaan excitedly chatter about the  
game while he waited for his food to be finished._ _

__When Shaan handed him the food and gushed profusely about how much he was looking forward  
to the game, Ian took his bag, and his pride, and headed home._ _

__Chapter Six: No Need For Triangulation_ _

__Just as Mickey expected, he received a text message from Connor on his way to work on Monday  
morning. It had been less than 24 hours since they’d screwed around and the other man was  
already in hot pursuit. While he was sure that some men would find it charming, to him, it was  
annoying. The last thing he needed was a guy checking up on him the morning after; tiptoeing  
into chivalry. It made his skin crawl to think that some men he’d been with thought of him as soft  
because of his preferences. The fact that there were dudes who liked to get flowers, chocolates,  
and other chick shit blew his mind, but still so many of his former flames had attempted to woo  
him with grand gestures that gave him the douche-chills. He didn’t want to be anything more than  
a memory to all of them, reflected on with nostalgia but moved past when presented with the next  
exciting opportunity. It seemed, however, that to many of the men he bedded, there was nobody  
more exhilarating than him. Placing the phone back into his suit jacket without replying, he  
opened the door of his Battery Park office and greeted his secretary, Aria, who was already at the  
front desk getting organized for the day._ _

__“Morning,” he said, grunting a ‘thank you’ when she thrust a coffee mug into his hands._ _

__“How was your weekend?” she asked, chipper as an early bird as she followed him into his office._ _

__“Same old,” he replied, looking at her over the rim of his coffee cup. “How about yours?”_ _

__“It was nice. Restful,” she said, straightening her skirt. “Did you get my messages from Friday?”_ _

__“About the Oliver meeting today? I got them.”_ _

__“Good,” she sighed. “They should be here right about 9:00a.m.”_ _

__He nodded. “Did you transfer them to Josh when they called?”_ _

__“Of course,” she confirmed. “He took notes and left them on your desk.” She gestured to the  
yellow notepad sitting atop Mickey’s keyboard._ _

__“I’ll take a look at them. Send him in here as soon as gets his ass to work.”_ _

__“And when the Olivers arrive?” she began, watching as Mickey flipped through the notes._ _

__“Buzz me and then hold them until I call you back,” he directed, unbuttoning his jacket so he  
could sit down comfortably in his oversized leather office chair._ _

__“You got it,” Aria said with a nod, closing the door as she left the room._ _

__It was only moments later that it was opened again by paralegal extraordinaire, Joshua Palmer,  
who strode into the office like he was walking into a nightclub, always rocking his signature strut.  
“Good morning, gorgeous!”_ _

__“You’re late,” Mickey grumbled, laughing despite himself when the other man did a full spin to  
show off what was evidently a new suit._ _

__“Not bad, huh?” he asked rubbing his hand over the arm of steel grey suit and grinning at Mickey.  
The color contrasted beautifully with his deep brown skin and he knew it._ _

__“It would’ve looked better if I saw it 15 minutes ago when you were supposed to be here,  
dipshit.”_ _

__“You’re in a mood,” Josh noted with a click of his tongue._ _

__“Yeah, well, tell me what I need to know about Matthew Oliver,” Mickey directed, leaning back  
and crossing his arms over his chest. “And make it quick.”_ _

__“Hmm, he’s a nasty motherfucker,” the paralegal offered, sitting on the corner of the lawyer’s  
desk. “Big time Televangelist who has millions of followers. He claims to be boys with Jesus, but  
believe me, my man would not have chilled with him. Oliver hates everything that he’s not and  
has audacity to preach about inclusion and love. He’s not a fan of your kind and I’m sure he isn’t  
down with mine either. I’m thinking he doesn’t know which way you swing because if he did…”_ _

__“Do me a favor? Fucking focus on the shit I actually need to know, alright? I’ve defended  
scumbags before. I don’t need to cuddle with them, I need to win. The facts. Now.”_ _

__“He was arrested for the murder of Tyler Parks. Parks was a 24 year old religious school teacher,  
who grew up in the church. He was found dead in education wing’s teachers’ lounge by a janitor  
at approximately 9:45pm on Saturday, April 15th. The cause of death was multiple gunshot  
wounds to the head which, according to the police report, happened at approximately 7:15pm on  
April 15th. There was a Tupperware of food sitting cold on the table, so it is believed Parks was  
eating dinner when the homicide occurred.”_ _

__“And where does Oliver come into play? Do they have him at the church?”_ _

__“They do not,” Joshua answered. “Matthew Oliver has a thin as string alibi. He was at a retreat in  
Shohola, Pennsylvania, a little town in the Poconos, on Friday April 14th and Saturday April  
15th. The majority of attendees rode to and from the campground in the church bus, but Oliver  
drove on his own. He claims to have left the mountains at around 3:00pm on Saturday, stopping  
once at a rest stop in Denville, New Jersey which is 55 miles and approximately 1 hour and 20  
minutes from Shohola. Credit card receipts confirm that he bought a Kind bar and coffee at the  
Denville Circle K at 4:44pm before continuing on to NYC, which was another 38 miles and  
approximately 1 hour and 15 minutes, considering traffic. This timeline has him arriving in NYC  
at approximately 6:00pm. Oliver then claims to have spent an hour and half or so in Central Park  
staring at the goddamn pigeons and writing his sermon for the next day. According to his accounts  
and credit card receipts, he stopped at Barney Greengrass at 7:52pm to pick up chicken noodle  
soup for his wife Sara, who was resting in their Upper West Side apartment with a cold.”_ _

__“Why Barney Greengrass? That’s not far from Fine and Schapiro. They have much better soup,”  
Mickey stated, crinkling down his eyebrows._ _

__“I mean… that’s what you’re stuck on?”_ _

__Mickey shrugged. “So what do they have on Oliver? They had to have something good to lock  
him up. No way they’d have the stones to do it if they didn’t have much.”_ _

__“The Springfield Armory XD that was used to kill Tyler Parks was found in a dumpster two  
blocks in a straight line from the Faith Redeemer Evangelical Church at 82nd and Broadway at  
around 84th. Barry Greengrass, the soup stop, is at 86th and Amsterdam, two blocks up and one  
over and the Olivers’ apartment is at 88th between Amsterdam and Broadway. So if you  
triangulate all of the locations…”_ _

__“You don’t need to triangulate shit that’s right on top of each other,” Mickey sighed, “but so  
what? That’s nothing.”_ _

__“The gun was registered to one, Matthew Oliver,” Joshua added._ _

__“You should’ve led with that.”_ _

__“I like to build suspense,” the paralegal said with a smirk._ _

__“I like to jerk off but I don’t do it when I don’t got time, asshole,” Mickey chided. “Alright, so  
he’s a little more fucked, but not bad. That it?”_ _

__“Their family attorney handled the arraignment last week, it went to the Grand Jury before the  
D.A. dropped in the the A.D.A's lap, and Mr. Oliver is currently out on bail. I guess they realized  
it was time to bring in the big dogs.” Joshua gave his boss a bright, white, million dollar smile  
which playfully fell when Mickey corrected him with the singular tense and barked._ _

__When his phone buzzed, the lawyer ordered Joshua to “go get them and come back in.”_ _

__“Do I look like a secretary?” he asked, brushing non-existent dirt off the shoulder of his expensive  
suit._ _

__“You look like a tool. Go.”_ _

__Joshua did as he was told, reappearing moments later with the Matthew and Sara Oliver, who both  
looked extremely tired, but well put together._ _

__“Mr. and Mrs. Oliver,” Mickey greeted respectfully as he shook their hand. “Thanks for coming  
in.”_ _

__“Typically I would say it was our pleasure,” Sara stated softly, “but as you can imagine, it’s not.”_ _

__“Please take a seat,” Josh said, gesturing to the chairs across from Mickey’s desk as he pulled one  
up as well and rested his laptop on Mickey’s desk._ _

__“You have a small operation here,” Matthew observed, his voice laced with disapproval. “Morty  
said you were the best.”_ _

__“Morty’s not wrong,” Joshua assured him. “Mickey is the best.”_ _

__“You should worry less about the size of my office and more about the heaping pile of shit you’re  
in,” Mickey suggested. “Do want a team of six dumbasses working for you or two who know  
what the fuck they’re doing?”_ _

__Sara’s eyes went wide as she covered her mouth in shock from the profanity._ _

__“I will ask you not to speak in such a brash way in front of my wife,” Matthew chided, resting a  
protective hand on the woman’s thin shoulder. “She has been through enough.”_ _

__“Alright.” Mickey cleared his throat. “I’ll be more aware of that. Sorry,” he said looking directly at  
the Sara, who nodded her appreciation._ _

__“I must ask before we continue,” Matthew began, “do you accept Jesus Christ as your lord and  
savior?”_ _

__“I must ask that you not worry about what I think of anything and let me concentrate on saving  
your ass.”_ _

__“Mick,” Josh whispered in warning._ _

__“Ass is biological,” he stated. “Or it should be.”_ _

__“I don’t think I can have a lawyer who does not bask in the light of the Lord,” the preacher said,  
shaking his head vehemently. “This isn’t going to work.”_ _

__“Matthew,” Sara implored, placing her palm on his thigh to keep him seated. “Morty said he’s  
your best chance.” She turned to Mickey. “Are you aware of the charges against my husband?”_ _

__“I am,” he said with a nod, “and I know that the gun registered in his name isn’t enough to put  
him away as long as we play it right.”_ _

__She let out a relieved sigh._ _

__“And how do we play it right?” Matthew wondered, tapping his fingers against his knee  
nervously._ _

__“Well, you can start by telling me what your gun was doing involved in a murder._ _

__“I honestly have no idea,” the older man said. “I keep it in my office for protection. Believe it or  
not, I receive a lot of threats to my life.”_ _

__Mickey glared at Joshua, who was nodding his head as if he could, in fact, believe it._ _

__“Thankfully, I’ve never had to use it. I don’t keep track of it other than knowing that it’s in my  
office in case I need it. It could’ve been stolen months or years ago,” he explained._ _

__“And you didn’t keep it in a safe?” Mickey questioned skeptically. “When you have tons of kids  
around?”_ _

__Matthew sighed. “I kept it in a shoe box in the closet. I’ll admit I’m guilty of poor gun safety  
management, but not of murder. I loved that boy like a son. Tyler grew up with our Simon. They  
were friends for as long as I can remember. I was devastated to hear of his death. I mourn with his  
mother, his friends, our church, humanity.” He let out an exasperated sigh. “This is a tragedy of  
epic proportions.”_ _

__“And that’s what you’ll tell the congregation when you go back to preaching on Sunday,” Sara  
said. She glanced at lawyer. “If you find that advisable, of course.”_ _

__“I do,” Mickey confirmed. “Say prayers and shit about the victim, but don’t stay on the topic for  
long. It would look too callous not to reference him at all, but you don’t want to give any detail or  
get too deep into things. You go about your business as usual. Innocent men don’t hide.”_ _

__“I’m so relieved that you realize he’s innocent,” Sara said, giving Mickey the first smile he’d seen  
since they’d stepped foot in his office._ _

__“I don’t care if he is or isn’t,” the lawyer rectified. “I care about winning, so that’s what we’ll do.”_ _

__As Sara’s smile grew wider, Matthew began to sport one, too and Mickey knew that they were  
aware that they’d come to the right place._ _

__Chapter Seven: Oh Puppy_ _

__Ian had spent his few free moments on Monday ruminating on what he wished he would’ve said  
to Shaan the day before. Though there was no doubt that it would have been embarrassing to tell  
him that he intended for the game to be a date, he found it more pathetic that he was going to hand  
over the tickets without at least attempting to set it up for them to hang out in another way. When  
it came down to it, he was glad to give the tickets to two people who would enjoy the experience  
more than him. Rather than pretend he knew what the hell was going on during the game, he’d  
prefer to get to know Shaan better in a more intimate setting anyway._ _

__Unsurprisingly, Mandy had given him a ton of shit followed by a pep talk that had him to heading  
to Dil-e Punjab on Tuesday morning before work. The food counter was closed, but he caught  
sight of Shaan stocking shelves in the small grocery section of the deli._ _

__“Hey,” he said, taken aback by the presence of the redhead. “Ian. How are you?”_ _

__“I’m good,” he replied, shifting his weight as he tried to steel himself for the conversation he was  
about to dive into. He reached into his suit pocket and pulled a pair of tickets out to hand them to  
Shaan. “Wanted to drop by and give you these.”_ _

__“Oh awesome!” He stood up excitedly and took the tickets from Ian. “You didn’t have to come by  
today. I mean, I was probably going to see you tonight anyway since it’s Tuesday. Yoga night.”  
He smiled warmly at Ian._ _

__“I have something I need to get off my chest.”_ _

__“You hated the Murgh Malaiwala?”_ _

__“Oh. No. I mean...” He did. “It wasn’t for me, but it was delicate like you said.”_ _

__Shaan nodded, pushing his raven curls out of his face. “Perhaps it’s an acquired taste. Tikka  
Masala for life,” he teased._ _

__“Listen,” Ian began, clearing his throat, determined to cut to the chase before he lost his nerve.  
“I’d like to take you out sometime. On a date.”_ _

__The other man stared at him with an indiscernible expression on his face. When the silence  
became painfully awkward, Shaan finally stated, “I’m not gay.”_ _

__“Oh.”_ _

__“I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression,” he continued, with a grimace on his lips._ _

__Ian wished he was in a cartoon where the tiles in the floor would drop away, causing him to lose  
his balance and be thrust down a whirly, twirly slide that led to a land full of candy and no cares at  
all. Instead, he stood there red as beet, unable to escape the rejection. “No, no. You’re okay. I just  
thought it was worth a shot.”_ _

__“I just... I could never choose to be with a man. I’m too enchanted by women,” Shaan added.  
“Would you like your tickets back?” he asked, holding them out towards Ian._ _

__“Uh, no. Of course not. You keep them. Have a good time,” he insisted. “I’ll see you later.”_ _

__As Ian hightailed it out of the deli, he knew he wouldn’t. He was sick of Tikka Masala anyway.  
Though he’d been trying to quit, he stopped at the mini-mart at the end of the block to pick up a  
pack of Camel Blacks and sparked one up. Shaan’s words knocked around in his mind as he  
walked to the subway. He ‘could never choose to be with a man.’ It was crazy to Ian that people  
still believed that sexuality was a choice. It wasn’t the Matthew Oliver brand of homophobia, but  
it was an ignorant thought nonetheless._ _

__The subway ride to work was full of regret. He was aggravated at himself for not being able to  
read cues and for spending the majority of his 20’s holed up with law books rather than dating.  
His lack of experience was daunting when all he wanted was to open up and fall in love.  
His loneliness had struck him two years ago when his nephew was born. Though Jacob was  
younger than him, he was much more settled in life than Ian could have ever dreamed to be. He  
had a spouse, two children, a dog and a house in the suburbs, everything Ian wanted but feared he  
would never have. The only choice he had made in regards to his love life was to focus on his job  
rather than finding someone to build a relationship with._ _

__Rejection was tough to handle, but Ian was glad he’d be able to tell Mandy that he went for it.  
When she arrived at the office a few minutes after him, he did just that._ _

__“I did it,” he told her as he unbuttoned his jacket so he could sit down._ _

__“What did you do?” she asked, tossing her purse on the chair beside the one she sunk into._ _

__“I asked Shaan out.”_ _

__“Really?” Her blue eyes lit up as she waited for the continuation of the statement. “And?”_ _

__“And he chooses not to be gay,” Ian replied with a wry grin. “He…. chooses not to like men.”_ _

__“He chooses that, huh?”_ _

__“He does.”_ _

__“Did he also choose his skin tone and eye color?” she asked, crinkling up her nose. “His height? If  
his earlobes attach to his face?”_ _

__“I think so. Also, the number of his fingers and toes and whether he was born with a dick or not.”_ _

__“Sounds like he was born a dick.”_ _

__“Eh, I don’t know,” Ian said with a sigh. “He’s just ignorant.”_ _

__“There’s no excuse for being ‘just ignorant,’ Ian. There’s this thing called the internet. If people  
don’t know about things, they can use Google and learn them.”_ _

__“Speaking of Google for the ignorant. I finished looking up all those Bible verses the associate  
pastor at FREC referenced in his sermon.”_ _

__“That was a hell of segue. Does this mean we’re done talking about what happened with Shaan?  
Are you alright?” Mandy wondered, studying the redhead’s face. “I know you were nervous  
about this happening and then,” she paused, “it did.”_ _

__“I’m okay. I mean, I’m not going to lie. It stung, but it wasn’t the first time.”_ _

__“I don’t get it,” she said shaking her head in astonishment. “You’re literally gorgeous. Honestly,  
probably one of the best looking people I’ve ever seen in my life.”_ _

__“Oh come the fuck on,” he blushed, rubbing his forehead._ _

__“I’m serious!” she exclaimed. “You’re tall. You have an awesome body. Your hair is a marvel  
and you have the most phenomenal upside down eyes.”_ _

__“Upside down eyes?” he asked, incredulously. “What does that even mean?”_ _

__“They’re like almond shaped but they slope down a bit instead of up, like puppy dog eyes. I love  
them.” She smiled when Ian squinted those eyes at her. “What?”_ _

__“So I have upside down puppy dog eyes? This is supposed to make getting shot down suck less?’  
he laughed._ _

__She nodded. “Mmmhmm, because they’re amazing, just like you.”_ _

__“Alright, alright,” he said with a grin. “We’re done with this. Let’s talk about the Bible.” He fired  
up his laptop and pulled up the email he’d sent to himself the night before. “Do you want to, like,  
slide into your morning routine before we go through this shit or are you good?”_ _

__“Let’s get biblical,” she cheered with mock excitement._ _

__“The sermon itself was about the falsely accused, so there’s not much question which way the  
congregation is swaying in regards to Oliver’s guilt. Remember when the pastor compared him to  
Jesus, Job and Moses? All wrongly accused.”_ _

__“Sheep.”_ _

__“Sheep.”_ _

__“It’s just completely insane to me that nobody is thinking about Tyler Parks. I mean, they say  
they’re mourning him, but they’re supporting the supposed murderer rather blindly.”_ _

__“They support lots of things blindly,” he reminded her._ _

__“Touché.”_ _

__“I want to get your impressions of the three verses that stood out to me the most. See what you  
think of them.”_ _

__“Okay,” she nodded. “Hit me with the good word.”_ _

__He smiled as he read the first verse, “Exodus 20:16: You must not testify falsely against your  
neighbor.”_ _

__“Sounds like a thinly veiled threat to me, that the congregation shouldn’t talk. Like, anything they  
think they know that would implicate Oliver would be false, so they’d be going against Jesus or  
something if they did.”_ _

__“Right?” Ian agreed. “That’s what I was thinking. It gets even clearer. Exodus 23:1: You must not  
pass along false rumors. You must not cooperate with evil people by lying on the witness stand,”  
he looked at the paralegal, wide eyed. “What reason would there to be to bring up testifying if  
there wasn’t something to hide. It’s just a weird thing to be focusing on.”_ _

__“Completely.”_ _

__“This is my personal favorite. Psalm 70:3: Let them be horrified by their shame, for they said,  
‘We’ve got him now!’ I, for one, can’t wait to say that,” he confessed with a smirk._ _

__“We will get him,” Mandy assured him, “and it will be glorious!”_ _

__“Amen,” Ian said, clapping his hand together in prayer. “Praise be the justice system and us, its  
faithful devotees.”_ _

__“Speak on it!”_ _

__“We need to get all our pre-trial motions in order and start scheduling interviews. Rodney told me  
on the low that they’re going to work hard to expedite everything with this case. The longer it’s in  
the news, the more chance of having issues with the jury if it comes to that which, we think it  
will.”_ _

__“There’s no chance Oliver will take a plea.”_ _

__“No way and I don’t think it’s in me to make him an offer. We have the gun, we just need a  
motive. With a little bit of legwork, I have confidence we’ll find it.”_ _

__Mandy nodded. “He’s a vile man, who has zero redeeming qualities. It shouldn’t be difficult to  
nail him,” she said, “to the cross.”_ _

__“Stop,” Ian warned with a chuckle. “Mandy…”_ _

__“What?” she asked innocently. She grabbed her buzzing phone out of her purse and looked down  
at the screen. “My brother’s been psycho calling me. I need to call him back.”_ _

__“Go ahead,” he said. “I need to get past your last statement anyway.”_ _

__She rolled her eyes and walked out of the room, milling between the door frame and her desk just  
beyond the wall. Though she kept her voice down, it was obvious from her body language that  
she was raging. Ian tried not to eavesdrop but the veins straining in Mandy’s neck were  
demanding his attention. The remainder of the phone call was spoken through gritted teeth, and  
when clicked out of the call, she came back in Ian’s office, dumbstruck._ _

__“What’s going on?” he asked, his tone rife with concern. “Is everything okay?”_ _

__“Actually, it’s not. I need to recuse myself from the Oliver case.”_ _

__“What? Why?” he questioned, leaning forward in his seat, shocked by the news._ _

__“Conflict. Yesterday morning my asshole brother agreed to defend the indefensible.”_ _

__“No shit.”_ _

__“Yeah, so, I’m out. They’ll probably put me on drug cases or something equally boring.”_ _

__“He just told you today?”_ _

__“Mmmhmm.”_ _

__“And he knew yesterday?”_ _

__She nodded. “Yup, because he’s a dick.”_ _

__“A dick that’s good at his job?”_ _

__“A dick that’s extremely good at his job.”_ _

__“Should I be worried.”_ _

__Mandy let out a labored sigh. “This is a worst case scenario.” She shook her head. “Goddamnit, I  
wish he would’ve had some values and turned it down.”_ _

__“By worst case scenario, you mean...”_ _

__“I mean get Rachel on your desk because you need a bulldog.”_ _

__“Upside down puppy eyes aren’t going to do it?”_ _

__“Maybe if you got rabies,” she offered. “Fuck, I’m so pissed.”_ _

__“Sorry, Mandy,” Ian said as she slung her purse over her shoulder._ _

__“I’m sorry too,” she replied. “It’s going to be awful when you have to prosecute me after I kill me  
brother.”_ _

__“I’ll go total puppy for that one,” he promised._ _

__She gave him a weak grin and existed the room, leaving him reeling at the news. He needed to  
figure out Matthew Oliver’s motive, and he needed to do it fast._ _

__Chapter Eight: Stomping_ _

__On Tuesday nights, Mickey took a cab back to his old stomping grounds in Brooklyn, namely to  
Walt’s, a dive bar that had been serving him since he was 14 year-old. Nothing was more  
humbling than tromping into the dimly lit establishment week after week and having regulars talk  
shit to him just as they had for the past 17 years. The neighborhood had changed, with buildings  
bought during the real estate bubble going bust and up-and-coming investors snatching them up.  
Though the climate had shifted, the clientele at Walt’s remained predictably the same, a fact that  
Mickey was grateful for._ _

__Mickey’s life had taken twists and turns he couldn’t have expected when he was a loudmouthed  
delinquent talking shit to anyone who looked at him sideways back in Bedford-Stuyvesant. If  
someone told him back then that he would attend Yale, or college at all, he would’ve called them  
a fucking moron and gone about his business making trouble. Regardless of how hard he worked  
in high school, going to university had seemed like an impossible dream, but it was one he had  
wanted, whether he’d admitted it or not._ _

__When his guidance counselor, Ms. Dolinky, had waxed poetic about how amazing an opportunity  
college would be for him, he’d thrown up a wall saying it wasn’t for him. Being the persuasive  
woman she was, she found the magic phrase that would allow her to chip her way in: ‘You can  
get as far away from your father as you want to, both physically and mentally.’ Just like that, he  
was driven to get the fuck out of Brooklyn and make something of himself. So he did._ _

__Still, as far away as he’d wanted to be from his dad, and he’d wanted to be really fucking far,  
there was a nostalgia for the youth that had been taken from him long before he could enjoy it; just  
as it had been for so many street kids who lacked parental influence. Though the old bar flies  
would give him a massive amount of shit if he admitted it, they were the best substitute he’d had._ _

__“Lookie who the cat dragged in,” Old Fred said, beginning a slow clap as Mickey entered the bar.  
“Dressed to the tens once again.”_ _

__“The saying’s ‘dressed to the nines,’” Maniac Malloy corrected._ _

__“I know the saying, you halfwit. What I mean to say is that he looks better than that. I don’t need  
to run my statements by you. You can’t even read.”_ _

__“Who says I can’t read?” he asked indignantly._ _

__“Doris told me you couldn’t.”_ _

__“Doris is a goddamn whore and a liar.”_ _

__“C’mon, Malloy. It ain’t right to talk about your wife like that,” Mickey chided, shaking his head  
as he sat down on his usual stool._ _

__“Who asked you, smarty pants?” Malloy shot back, taking a swig of his beer._ _

__“That’s not an insult,” the lawyer reminded him easily, just as he always did. “You gotta come up  
with some different material, man. Your shit’s getting more tired than Grumps over there.” He  
nodded towards the white haired man sitting at the end of the bar. He didn’t lift his forehead off  
the sticky mahogany but managed to greet him with both of his middle fingers._ _

__“So what’s new, Milkovich? You got a girlfriend yet?” Old Fred asked as Mickey thanked Sophie  
for bringing him his usual Natty Ice. When he was in Brooklyn, he made it a point to drink beer  
worthy of the borough._ _

__“You asked me that shit last week,” Mickey said. “And the week before that, and the week before  
that.”_ _

__“Well one of these weeks you’ll say yes,” the elderly man stated. “Men can’t stay single forever,  
eventually you gotta stop mowing all those girls’ lawns and start planting your seed.”_ _

__“Fred here just wants to live vicariously through you,” Malloy told him with a laugh, “but I say  
the stories of refusing to settle down are much more interesting.”_ _

__“Too bad I never shared them with you and I’m not gonna start now,” Mickey tsked. “You guys  
talk too much.”_ _

__“You come down here to talk to us,” Old Fred stated. “Don’t lie and say you’re coming around  
for the beer. It tastes like piss.”_ _

__“Natty Ice tastes like piss in Manhattan, too,” Sophie promised as she wiped down the bar top._ _

__“It’s not my fault you guys got shitty taste.”_ _

__Mickey spent two hours bullshitting with the kings of bullshit, before hailing a cab and riding it  
back to his apartment building. He was not surprised to find Mandy leaning against the door to his  
unit with her arms crossed over her chest, and Andrew standing beside her looking massively  
uncomfortable._ _

__“I really gotta change up my schedule,” he muttered to himself, wishing his whereabouts weren’t  
so predictable._ _

__“You’re a fucking asshole,” his sister roared, as he nudged her aside to unlock the door._ _

__“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” Mickey asked, dropping his keys on the entry table and sitting on chair  
across from it to untie his shoes_ _

__“Do you want the chronological list of all your infractions or should I start with the most recent  
and obvious?”_ _

__“Sometimes I look at you and just want to tell you to run far, far away,” he told his best friend,  
who tried to stifle his laugh when Mandy turned to glare at him._ _

__“How could you take the Oliver case?” she demanded, redirecting all her energy back to her  
brother. “You knew this was a really big deal for me.”_ _

__“Know this TriBeCa apartment you’re standing in?” he said as he struggled off his suit jacket. “I  
bought this shit and it wasn’t cheap. Know how I bought it? With the money I make from my  
job.”_ _

__“You’re not hard up for business,” Mandy reminded him, following him into the kitchen, where  
he pulled a carton of orange juice out of the refrigerator and took a gulp._ _

__“I will be if I give up every case you’re working on. I fucking warned your stubborn ass about this  
when you decided to go work for the D.A. instead of me,” Mickey stated. “I’m a sought after  
Defense Attorney. There was no way it wasn’t gonna impact you.”_ _

__“He did tell you that,” Andrew confirmed, sitting down in a stool. He nearly lost his balance and  
toppled over when his girlfriend practically hissed at him in response._ _

__“I didn’t want to work for you, so now I’m going to continually get punished?” she cried. “I  
couldn’t morally justify defending scumbags like Matthew Oliver.”_ _

__“You didn’t have to work for me. You could’ve done any other specialty and it wouldn’t have  
been an issue. If you were in personal injury this wouldn’t be a problem. Real estate, no big deal.  
You brought this on yourself, rageball.”_ _

__“How can you do it anyway? Defend him? He hates you.”_ _

__“So...?” Mickey shrugged. “I don’t give a shit about him or his endless slew of fucked up  
opinions.”_ _

__“Money isn’t worth your soul.”_ _

__“You’re actually thinking about locking this down?” he asked Andrew, who in return gave him a  
face that screamed ‘shut the fuck up.’ “The drama’s intense with this one.”_ _

__“I’m serious, Mickey. He’s a fucking asshole. How could you work for him?” she asked. “He  
uses his platform to spread hate while pretending he’s this almighty saint. It’s sickening.”_ _

__“Mandy,” Mickey began, his voice more patient than it had been moments earlier. “I defend serial  
killers, rapists, and child molesters. Matthew Oliver and his big ass mouth doesn’t even come  
close to being the most disgusting person I’ve worked for. If you’re worried about my soul, you  
should’ve been shitting yourself way before now.”_ _

__“I just don’t understand how you can see past it,” she said with a sigh._ _

__“Nobody’s asking you to,” he said plainly. “I make a good living and I sleep peacefully at night. It  
is what it is.” He placed the juice back in the fridge and nudged his knuckle against the side of his  
nose. “Sorry you got moved off the case. I would’ve enjoyed beating you.”_ _

__Mandy couldn’t help but grin at her brother’s smirk. “There’s no way you’re winning this one,”  
she informed him._ _

__“Is that right?” he asked, eyebrows lifted. “What do they have?”_ _

__“Fuck you prick, like I’d fucking tell you!” she exclaimed with a laugh._ _

__“Aw, I’m glad you two are back to jovially telling each other off. All is right with the world,”  
Andrew teased, drawing irritated looks from both Milkoviches._ _

__“How do you put up with this guy?” Mickey asked his sister, shaking his head. He chuckled at the  
exasperated exhale his best friend punched out._ _

__“I really do hope you lose,” Mandy confessed. “Honestly, Oliver deserves to rot and also because  
I like Ian much better than you and this is a big case for him.”_ _

__“Ugh this Ian shit again,” Andrew groaned. “Don’t let Mandy fool you, Mick. She’s, like, 10%  
upset that she’s not working the case but 90% devastated because she’s not working with Ian  
anymore. He’s like the gay brother she always wanted. They talk about boys and fashion....”_ _

__“I mean, we don’t really talk about fashion,” she corrected, “he’s not into that stuff. It’s mostly just  
me telling him how gorgeous he looks in every suit he wears.”_ _

__“So I’m going up against a dick-hungry fairy. I’m feeling even better about my chances,” Mickey  
stated with a pleased nod._ _

__“He’s about as much of a ‘fairy’ as you are, Mr. Oliver,” Mandy snarked, rolling her eyes when_ _

__Mickey gave her the finger. “What? That’s who you sound like when you talk like that.”_ _

__“Maybe Matthew Oliver is gay,” Andrew mused. “Think about it. The more outwardly hateful,  
the more repressed. I saw it first hand with you,” he told Mickey. “Everything freshman year was  
fag this and fag that. I thought you were just a homophobe until I caught you getting railed by that  
black kid down the hall. You know, like ‘thou doth protest too much.’ He may be getting fucked  
on the down low, too.”_ _

__“You’re fucking stupid,” Mickey chided, while Mandy kissed his blushing cheek._ _

__“Tell me more about this guy,” she prompted, “over dinner. I’m hungry! Where should we order  
from?”_ _

__“I guess you guys are making yourself at home,” Mickey sighed, watching Mandy and Andrew  
go through his menu drawer._ _

__Walking into his bedroom to change out of his work clothes, he figured there were worse ways to  
spend the rest of his Tuesday night._ _

__Chapter Nine: More Than He Bargained For_ _

__It had been two months since Ian was given the Oliver case and those sixty days were full of  
interviews with people close to Matthew, a desperate search for more evidence he could submit  
for discovery, and Ian freaking the fuck out because he didn’t have shit other than the gun. He’d  
never worked a case that was headed to trial with so little to back him up. In his darkest moment,  
he’d considered filing a Clayton motion, knowing that what he had wasn’t enough to convince a  
jury that Matthew was guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. If the accused had been a person other  
than the bigot, he may have actually gone before the judge to say that he couldn’t go forward in  
the interest of justice, but there was no way he was going to back off Oliver that easily.  
Instead, he found himself preparing to do what he said he wouldn’t do months before; he was  
going to offer the pastor a plea bargain. Pressure from the higher-ups had siphoned its way  
through Rodney onto him and had a politician’s stench all over it. It was in the best interest of the  
State to make the whole fiasco disappear, and it was on Ian’s shoulders to get it done._ _

__“I don’t want to do this,” he told Rachel for the 435th time that week. “I really don’t want to  
fucking do this.”_ _

__“I know you don’t want to,” she soothed. “The silver lining is there’s no way he’s going to take it,  
right? It’s the toughest plea deal I’ve seen in my career. You’re going through the motions to  
please the people who need to be pleased, but it doesn’t change the bottom line. As soon as you’re  
done, we’re back to strategizing about how we’re going to take him down.”_ _

__“We have nothing. A gun, a wafer thin alibi, that’s it. No jury in their right mind will consider that  
enough to lack doubt.” Ian rubbed his sweaty palm over his forehead and sighed. “What are we  
missing?”_ _

__“Other than evidence?” Rachel asked, biting the nail on her index finger._ _

__“Yeah other than that.”_ _

__“Motive.”_ _

__“That too,” he agreed, quite familiar with the way the conversation went. After all, they had it  
multiple times a day. Grabbing a pack of Camels from his desk drawer, he stood up and asked  
‘what?’ when he received an unimpressed tsk from the paralegal._ _

__“You know what,” she replied smoothing out her black pencil skirt as she rose to her feet as well._ _

__“You told me to give you shit when you go for a cigarette during the day. Before and after work  
only, remember. It’s step two on your ‘Recommitment to Quitting’ plan.”_ _

__“Today doesn’t count,” Ian stated, “today’s a shitty day.”_ _

__“But it’s Thursday. Thursday means yoga. We’ll do some deep stretches and release all of this  
fucked up tension. We’ll be renewed and ready to fight another day.”  
He smiled at her. “I wish I had your optimism.”_ _

__“You do. I think you just hit pause.”_ _

__“Ms. Zhang,” an intern said as he gently knocked on window beside the door. “I’m sorry to  
interrupt but I made the urgent copies you requested.” He handed her a file folder and his face  
went red when she looked at him._ _

__“Thank you, Calvin,” she said. The iota of attention she showed him for a fleeting moment very  
obviously set the young man’s heart ablaze._ _

__“What a silly kid,” she laughed after he’d scurried out of the room._ _

__“They’re all silly around you,” he teased as he walked past her._ _

__“T minus 15 minutes,” she called down the hall._ _

__Ian waved his acknowledgment as he hurried outside. Leaning against brick wall, he held the  
lighter to his cigarette and inhaled the chemicals, silently urging them to calm his nerves. He was  
nearly to the band when a man sparked up a few feet away from him. With his inky black hair and  
pale skin, he looked eerily familiar, though Ian was sure he’d never met him. There was no doubt  
in his mind that he would have remembered if he had._ _

__“Mickey Milkovich?” Ian questioned, tentatively, floored when the bluest eyes he’d ever seen  
focused on him. “Ian Gallagher, opposing counsel.” He moved closer to extend his hand and  
noticed how reluctant the other man was to shake it, even though he did. “Shit, you look just like  
Mandy.”_ _

__“Yeah, well, fuck you too,” he said brusquely, taking a drag and blowing the smoke out in Ian’s  
general direction._ _

__Mickey was intimidating in a way he hadn’t expected. While he was aware that the defense  
attorney had a reputation for being tough, Ian had ignorantly thought that attitude was relegated  
exclusively to the courtroom. His swagger was demonstrative of his confidence and honestly, Ian  
would have found it sexy as hell if he hadn’t been his adversary, a caveat that caused him to find  
Mickey’s cockiness unnerving._ _

__“She’s stunning,” Ian defended, feeling his face flush at the implication._ _

__“You better not be wasting my time,” Mickey warned, very obviously avoiding the redhead’s  
loaded statement._ _

__“Huh?”_ _

__“The plea deal. I hope you’re coming to the table with something we can work with because I  
know you don’t have jack.”_ _

__“We should wait to discuss the terms of the plea bargain until your client is present,” Ian stated,  
bristling at the other man’s tone._ _

__“Aw, shit, I’m sorry,” Mickey mocked acridly,_ _

__“See, I figured since you started talking to me that you actually wanted to talk.”_ _

__“I did. I do,” he corrected, tossing his cigarette on the ground and stomping it out before deciding  
to repeat, “I did.” He gave the other man a dirty look before heading back into he building._ _

__After meeting him, Ian realized that Mandy wasn’t lying when she said her brother was a dick.  
Before, he hadn’t wanted to offer Matthew Oliver a plea deal because he was a disgusting human  
being. The run in with his opposing counsel had served to add another layer to Ian’s reluctance.  
The thought of acquiescing to Mickey Milkovich, in any way, was completely unappealing as  
well._ _

__“Zhang,” Ian barked hastily as he barreled down the hallway towards the paralegal who was  
compiling his paperwork. “Change 20 years to 30.”_ _

__“We talked about this,” Rachel reminded him. “20 gets him out at 71, 30 is 81. It’s basically a life  
sentence. There’s no way they’ll go for it.”_ _

__“Rach,” he said breathlessly. “Second-degree and 30.”_ _

__She nodded, quickly make the amendment on her laptop before jogging to the printer to pick it up.  
Ian chugged the remaining contents from the water bottle on his desk, wiping the front of his suit  
when the liquid dribbled off his chin onto it._ _

__“Mr. Gallagher,” his secretary Beatrice began, peeking her head into his office. “We have Mr.  
Milkovich and his client, Mr. Oliver in the conference room.”_ _

__“Thanks, Bea,” he said as pleasantly as possible._ _

__“Am I coming in?” Rachel asked, appearing beyond the door frame. She thrusted a folder and pen  
into Ian’s shaky hands. “Are you alright? Nervous?”_ _

__“Pissed,” Ian told her. “I’ll be fine. Just wait out here this shouldn’t take long.”_ _

__She nodded and told him ‘good luck’ as he made his way to end of the hall. Opening the door, Ian  
felt his stomach churn when his eyes fell upon the hateful monster in the flesh. His grey hair was  
slicked back neatly and from the way his suit was perfectly fitted to his trim body, Ian could tell it  
was expensive. “Mr. Oliver,” he greeted as he forced himself to shake his hand. “Ian Gallagher,  
Assistant District Attorney.”_ _

__“I was under the impression I would be meeting with the District Attorney,” Matthew said, turning  
to Mickey, who looked like he wanted to be anywhere but there. “Somebody with influence.”_ _

__“Mr. Gallagher has the same abilities as the D.A.,” he told him simply, gesturing for the pastor to  
follow him to the table so they could sit down and hear Ian’s offer._ _

__Fuming, but doing his best to conceal his anger, Ian joined them, setting his papers out in front of  
him. He cleared his throat before beginning. “I’ll cut right to the chase. Based on the evidence we  
have and an alibi that’s not corroborated by any witnesses, the State is confident in our case  
against Mr. Oliver. Being cognizant of the cost and time involved in a criminal trial, we are willing  
to offer a plea bargain with the following terms: Mr. Oliver will plead guilty to second-degree  
murder and serve 30 years in prison. This is a lesser charge and sentence than we would be seeing  
if this case goes to trial.”_ _

__”30 years?” Matthew nearly choked. “I’ll be 81 years old! Who would ever agree to that?”_ _

__“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Mickey snapped in the middle of his client’s sentence._ _

__“You know damn well we aren’t accepting that bullshit deal, Gallagher. Quarter the amount of  
time, further reduce the degree and maybe we’ll worry about saving the State time and money.  
What are we looking at?”_ _

__“30 years and second degree,” the assistant district attorney said steadfastly, with narrowed eyed._ _

__“Then we have nothing more to discuss here,” Mickey stated through gritted teeth. He stood up  
abruptly, signaling for his client to do the same._ _

__“I guess I’ll be seeing you gentlemen in court then,” the redhead tsked, gathering the papers and  
shoving them back into the folder. He couldn’t wait to send them off to the shredder._ _

__“Yeah you will,” Mickey assured him, “and on your way, you may want to try to find some  
fucking evidence so I don’t embarrass you, because right now,” he shook his head for affect,  
“you’d be mortified.”_ _

__“Is that right?” Ian asked, feeling all his pulse points pounding with anger._ _

__“That’s right,” Mickey confirmed._ _

__“How are you even related to Mandy?” he muttered. Though his voice was barely audible, the  
pitbull heard and let out a wry laugh._ _

__“I’ll teach you all about reproduction after I school you in law,” Mickey mocked. “C’mon,” he  
urged, opening the door for his client. “We’re done.”_ _

__Ian felt woozy as they left, taken aback by Mickey’s behavior and his own. He’d never acted like  
that with another attorney and it was made worse that he’d done so in front of a high profile  
defendant._ _

__Mickey Milkovich had found a way to get under his skin, and it both enraged him and filled him  
with the fury to win._ _

__Chapter Ten: Not Bored At All_ _

__After the failed plea bargain meeting, Mickey spent the next several days staring at a computer  
screen, Joshua or the wall, trying to think of the best angle to take in his defense of Matthew  
Oliver. Though he knew the prosecutor didn’t have much in terms of evidence, he knew he had  
one thing that Mickey couldn’t compete with, the moral high ground. Cursory research had  
revealed that the public perception of Matthew and the Faith Redeemer Catholic Church as a  
whole was far from complimentary. The fact that the pastor was so widely reviled left Mickey  
both relieved and uneasy. He was glad, of course, that the majority of people rebuked his client’s  
hate speech, but worried that he would get a jury that was biased, no matter how attentive he was  
to weeding them out. As confident as he was in his chances, he knew he needed a strong theory to  
present reasonable doubt. All he needed was the jury to think ‘maybe it could have been this’ and  
Matthew was off the hook._ _

__“You know,” Mickey began, tapping his pen against his lip as he rested his feet on top of his desk,_ _

__“Tyler Parks and Simon Oliver could be twins. They have similar features, the same body type,  
hair color....”_ _

__“All white people look alike to me,” Joshua replied with a smirk, dodging the notepad that came  
flying from Mickey’s hands._ _

__The lawyer rolled his eyes and continued on with his thought. “Maybe there’s something here, the  
victim and Matthew’s son looking so goddamn similar.”_ _

__“You think they’re related or something?” Joshua questioned, sitting up a bit straighter in his seat._ _

__“What? No.” He shook his head. “I’m thinking that maybe someone had a vendetta against  
Matthew and wanted to get back at him by killing his kid, but fucked up and shot Tyler instead,  
like the perp was thinking it was Simon, but it was really Tyler.”_ _

__“Not gonna lie, Mick, that seems pretty far-fetched.”_ _

__“All we need is reasonable doubt,” Mickey reminded him._ _

__“The key word is ‘reasonable,’” Joshua stated, quickly ducking from another notepad coming his  
way._ _

__“You always talk shit until you realize that I’m right and then you shut your fucking mouth.”_ _

__“Yeah, well, I’m happy to admit I’m wrong when it’s making us money.”_ _

__“We’re about to make a shit ton more. I want you to seek out people who have bad relationships  
with Oliver. People that might hate him enough to go to the extreme.”_ _

__“That’s going to be like looking for a kid in a toy store,” Joshua said with a laugh._ _

__“Deeper than that,” Mickey corrected. “I’m talking disgruntled former church members that have a  
good deal of access. We need someone sufficiently pissed and who knows Matthew’s habits, lock  
code, all that shit.”_ _

__“I’ll look around,” he said with a nod. He glanced down at his watch and clicked his tongue,  
“tomorrow. There’s no way I’m digging deep into that shit at beer o’clock on a Friday.”_ _

__“Yeah, we’ll pick this up on Monday. I got plans, too.”_ _

__“Pray-tell,” Joshua urged. “Are you “hanging out” with Connor?”_ _

__“Don’t put air quotes around hanging out,” Mickey admonished. “I already told you that shit isn’t  
happening anymore.”_ _

__“You’ve been saying that for the last few months and I’m not even gonna pretend that I don’t see  
you getting a little smile on that miserable face when you’re reading his texts.”_ _

__“Yeah, what’s your facial expression when you get messages from sluts?”_ _

__“That all he is to you? A slut?” Joshua asked with his eyebrows raised._ _

__“That’s all any of them are.”_ _

__“You’re a cold-hearted prick, I swear,” he mused. “What’s the masculine form of womanizer?  
Man-eater? That’s you.”_ _

__“Don’t be dramatic,” Mickey warned. “It’s not that heavy.”_ _

__“It could be to them,” Joshua offered, huffing at the middle finger he earned from his response._ _

__“Are you really trying to give me advice on how to treat guys better when you have a never-ending  
revolving door of girls you're banging? Cause if you are, you’re on some serious  
hypocritical shit. The double standard is astounding.”_ _

__“I just feel like there’s bro-code,” he said with a grin. “We gotta treat the dudes better than we treat  
girls.”_ _

__“You’re twisted,” Mickey chided, more amused than aggravated. “Gay guys should be able to  
fuck dudes over with the same frequency that straight pricks do with girls.”_ _

__“Now you’re spitting the true gay pride,” Joshua stated, holding his fist so Mickey would bump it.  
In response, the lawyer did no such thing, instead opting to gather his belongings and start for the  
door._ _

__The truth was, he’d been doing a pretty good job avoiding Connor for the majority of the month  
of June. He’d only slipped up and slid onto his cock once, which was much improved in  
comparison to the frequency in May. He hadn’t wanted to lead him on, but the sex was better than  
average and Connor was a nice enough guy. It was just easy and since he wasn’t about to catch  
feelings for him, easy was just fine. It was apparent that Connor was interested in more, but he  
was surprisingly quiet about his intentions, which Mickey was glad for._ _

__Taking his suit jacket off and slinging it over his shoulder, Mickey made his way down the  
crowded street, towards the TriBeCa watering hole that he often met his sister and best friend at  
before they all headed to the Hamptons on Friday nights._ _

__The humidity in the air was stifling, causing Mickey to struggle to breathe in full inhales. Summer  
in the City was uncomfortable, made worse by a job that necessitated he wear a suit. Gone were  
they days when he was able to don wife beaters and basketball shorts throughout the sweltering  
season, but when it came down it, he’d take beach weekends over Monday thru Friday casual  
attire any day._ _

__When he arrived at Belle Reve, Mickey found Mandy and Andrew already settled into a booth,  
sipping summer shandies with another bottle waiting across the table for him._ _

__“Hey hey,” Andrew greeted, shaking Mickey’s hand. “We ordered disco fries a few minutes ago.”_ _

__“Alright,” he said sliding into the booth and immediately downing half his beer. “It’s fucking  
brutal out there.”_ _

__“The weather or the legal jungle?” Mandy questioned._ _

__“Both,” Mickey admitted, licking his lips while contemplating whether he should say anything  
about who had been on his mind. He looked at Mandy and decided to go for it. “I met your friend  
the other day.”_ _

__“You’re going to have to be more specific that that. Unlike you two,” she said, waving between  
her brother and boyfriend, “I have more than one.”_ _

__“Mick saps me of all my energy,” Andrew joked. “I can’t muster the mojo to chill with another  
guy. He’s too high maintenance.”_ _

__“Fuck off,” the lawyer laughed. “Get out there and play the field, Benjamin. You’ll come running  
back. Men are bigger bitches than women.”_ _

__“Stop with the Benjamin shit,” Mandy demanded, rolling her eyes. “You’re honestly so stupid.”_ _

__“It was a missed opportunity,” Mickey tsked. “A.J. could’ve been Benjamin James Hancock. B.J.  
Hancock. That’s a fucking name.”_ _

__“That’s a porn name,” his sister corrected._ _

__“An awesome porn name,” he retorted. “Admit it, B.J. It’s a badass porn name, right?”_ _

__“Andrew,” Mandy warned, lifting an eyebrow._ _

__The blond shrugged, clearly uncomfortable to find himself, per usual, in the Milkovich crosshairs._ _

__“Why are we even talking about this? Weren’t we about to hear who you met, Mickey?”_ _

__“Pussy,” the other man muttered, with a click of his tongue._ _

__“Disco fries,” a chipper waitress chirped, placing the platter in the middle of their table. “Can I get  
you all another round?”_ _

__“Yeah, and a shot of Jack,” Mickey added, as he shoved a loaded French fry into his mouth._ _

__“So who is it? And did you insult them?” Mandy prodded once the waitress walked away._ _

__“The Assistant District Attorney and no doubt.”_ _

__“Oh yeah,” she nodded, “Ian told me you were a total asshole.”_ _

__“He said that?” Mickey asked, not sure why he was surprised by the revelation after their  
exchange a few days before._ _

__“Yup,” Mandy confirmed. “I’ve never seen him more pissed.”_ _

__“Mickey has that effect on people,” Andrew teased, narrowing his eyes at his uncharacteristically  
quiet friend. “What? No comeback?”_ _

__“He’s really fucking cute.”_ _

__Both Mandy and Andrew stared at him flabbergasted by the statement._ _

__“Did you just call a guy ‘cute’?” his sister asked, astonished._ _

__“I’ve never heard you say anything about a guy more complimentary than he’s alright,” Andrew  
added, glancing at Mandy for a moment before focusing on his best friend again._ _

__“Is he the gay one?” Mickey asked, ignoring the perseverating the other two were doing on his  
words._ _

__“I think the exact term you used for him was a ‘dick-hungry fairy,’” Mandy stated, watching her  
brother eat fries like he hadn’t just said something insanely uncharacteristic.”_ _

__“Sounds about right.”_ _

__“I’m pretty sure he hates you.”_ _

__“So? You don’t gotta like a person to bang them,” Mickey said easily. “You just have to want to  
bang them.”_ _

__“That’s...” Mandy paused searching for the right word, “depressing.”_ _

__“After the trials over maybe I’ll get him outta my system.”_ _

__“You met him once, how ingrained in your system could he be?” she questioned._ _

__“He’s thinking about him so that’s kinda major. He’s been blowing then blowing off Cari’s friend  
for months,” Andrew reminded his girlfriend._ _

__“Never lied to the guy,” Mickey said easily. “He knew what he was getting into.”_ _

__“Well, Ian won’t be into that, especially not with you,” Mandy informed him. “He’s sweet and  
he’s looking for something serious. He wants a husband, kids, a dog, the suburbs, he doesn’t need  
a one night stand with a guy who treated him like shit.”_ _

__“Oh get off it,” Mickey groaned. “That was work shit. If he can’t deal with a little ribbing, he  
needs to find another career.”_ _

__“He said you were a prick when he tried to make small talk with him about me. You blew smoke  
in his face.”_ _

__“So this motherfucker tattled on me?” Mickey chuckled. “See, B.J. this is why you don’t want to  
get out there and find another friend. You’ll have to deal with this kinda shit.”_ _

__“All I’m saying is you two want different things,” Mandy continued. “He wants something real  
and you want cock. Besides, it’s a major conflict to fuck opposing counsel. He’d never go there.  
He’s upstanding unlike you.”_ _

__“He said after the trial,” Andrew reminded his girlfriend, who let out a sigh at the clarification._ _

__“Don’t pretend like he won’t be over whatever interest by then,” she said with a laugh. “Come  
on.”_ _

__“Fair point,” Andrew agreed. “I’m shocked we’re still talking about him. It’s been five minutes, I  
thought for sure Mick would be bored by now.”_ _

__“I’m just sitting here eating fries, minding my own goddamn business,” the lawyer said with his  
mouth full. He didn’t add that he wasn’t bored at all._ _


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Eleven: Motive Motivation

Ian’s weekend had consisted of thinking about the Oliver case. He thought about it at the gym, in  
the shower after his workout, while he stared mindlessly at the television, when he lay restless in  
his bed, as he walked city blocks, and placed groceries into his cart at Trader Joe’s. There wasn’t a  
moment of peace, because Mickey Milkovich was right, he didn’t have shit. Though Ian was quite  
sure that Matthew was guilty, he knew that there was no way he could prove it, beyond a  
reasonable doubt, to a jury. He needed a motive and in order to figure one out, he was going to  
need to get creative.

While on the subway to work early Monday morning, the exhausted man decided to stop caging  
his imagination in with pragmatism and reason, instead allowing it to run free and explore an array  
of ideas, hoping something would hit. What he came up with had him practically running from the  
train and leaping up the stairs by threes so he could hurry to work. He was glad to find Rachel  
sitting at her desk, tapping away on her laptop’s keyboard.

“Where’s the fire?” she asked, following him into his office as he threw his bag down on his desk  
and looked at her, his green eyes wild and alight.

“Close the door,” he said, waving her closer. “I think I got it.”

“Got what?” she questioned, taking a seat and watching Ian pace the floor.

“Tyler Parks looked so much like Simon Oliver. Remember when we were interviewing Simon  
and couldn’t get over how uncanny the resemblance was.”

“I do,” Rachel said with a nod.

“Here’s what we know,” he began preparing to tick off the facts with his fingers, “1. Tyler Parks  
never knew who his father was. He was born out of wedlock and the product of a one-night stand.  
2\. In her interview, Shay Parks said that she’s not proud of the circumstances surrounding his  
conception, but she owns it because Faith Redeemer Evangelical Church made her a better  
person.”

“I see where you’re going with this...”

“And?” he asked excitedly. “I mean, it seems pretty obvious, right?”

“Maybe if real life was a Lifetime Movie,” she answered skeptically.

“Come on. Think about it. Maybe Tyler was searching for his biological father and somehow  
figured out that it was Matthew, information that would potentially reveal decades of infidelity, or  
at the very least an act of infidelity decades ago. That would be horrible for the Oliver brand.  
Matthew killed Tyler to silence him.”

“Or maybe it was Sara,” Rachel suggested. “The scorned wife, figured it out, did away with the  
problem.”

“No,” he shook his head, “we have to stay focused. Sara provides the reasonable doubt we’re  
trying to get away from. Get in touch with Detective Mavanelli, please, and have him order a  
paternity test. Tell him to rush the labs. If the outcome’s what I suspect,” Ian said with a beaming  
smile on his face, “we got him.”

“As much as I think this is a long shot, and I do think it is, I can’t deny that you’re pretty  
awesome, Ian Gallagher.” She grinned back at him before heading to her desk to make the phone  
calls.

The more the lawyer pondered his theory, the more he believed that he cracked the motive code. It  
made perfect sense and he couldn’t wait to expose Matthew for the murderous, commandment  
breaking hypocrite he was while simultaneously kicking Mickey’s ass in the courtroom. He’d  
never considered himself to be a competitive person. In his career, he liked winning because he  
felt that when he did, justice was prevailing, but he couldn’t deny that he was looking forward to  
wiping the floor with the cocky prick of a defense attorney.

He spent the remainder of the morning handling paperwork for a few of the cases he’d put on the  
back burner for far too long. By noon, he could barely see straight, his eyes burning from the  
excessive reading and reviewing. As productive as he’d been, he couldn’t help but be grateful for  
the familiar rapping on his door, followed by Mandy’s face peeking into his office; just the  
distraction he needed.

“Are you interested in grabbing lunch with a lowly drug charge paper pusher today?”

“It depends who it is,” he said with a force frown. “See, I was hoping to eat with an amazingly  
organized and beautiful paralegal.”

“Rachel?” Mandy asked with a dramatic pout. “I knew she’d woo you away from me eventually.”

“Sushi?”

“Definitely,” she replied with a smile. “How long until your ready to roll?”

“I see what you did there,” Ian tsked, always amused by Mandy’s puns and quips, “you corny,  
clever girl.”

He slid his wallet into his suit pocket and buttoned the jacket.

“I think my brother’s going to join us, that’s cool, right?” she asked, causing Ian to fluster  
instantaneously.

“Uh, it’s not really a good idea for me to be breaking bread with him in a more intimate setting,”  
he replied with a grimace. “We can always pick another day to grab lunch,” he added, stopping  
dead in his tracks.

“I’m just messing with you!” Mandy laughed, giving him a playful shove. “I know better than  
that.”

“Oh shit, good,” he said, letting out a relieved sigh. “I mean, I know he’s your brother but...”

“You’re not a fan,” she filled in with a nod.

“I’m definitely not a fan,” he confirmed.

“He takes some getting used to.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Ian said with a grin. He opened the door for Mandy as they exited the  
building.

“Honshu, Suteishi or Sushi Azabu,” she asked.

“It’s a nice day. You good to walk a bit?”

She nodded.

“How about Takahashi TriBeCa,” he suggested. “I went there on a date last weekend and it was  
amazing.”

“A date?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. “Do tell.”

“I love how surprised you are,” Ian said with a laugh. “Lily had to come to NYC for a  
photoshoot. Hot date with my sister-in-law.”

“Jacob must be beside himself,” Mandy teased. They walked in a companionable silence for a  
block before she asked, “Really, though are you seeing anyone? You haven’t mentioned a guy  
since the Shaan debacle a few months ago.”

Ian shrugged. “The only man I’m focused on recently is Matthew Oliver.”

“He’s not a man, he’s a pig.”

“Don’t insult pigs like that,” he said with click of his tongue. “They’re cute and they taste good.”

“Touché,” Mandy agreed. “He’s just a pile of shit.”

“Shit can be used as fertilizer. He’s worse.”

“True story,” she giggled. “I can’t believe Mickey has to defend the prick.”

“In all fairness, he doesn’t have to, he’s choosing to,” Ian corrected. “I’m guessing if he’s pulling  
high profile clients like Oliver, he isn’t hard-up for the cash.”

“You guess right.”

“So why does he do it then?”

“I mean, I couldn’t, but it’s more complicated for him.”

“How so?”

“That’s not my story to tell,” she replied with a soft grin.

Ian nodded, appreciating Mandy’s loyalty and lit up a cigarette. As sticky as the city was in the  
summer, he couldn’t help but love it. Everything seemed so much brighter and more hopeful  
bathed in sun, himself included.

“I’m never getting over this reignited smoking habit,” Mandy stated.

“Well, I hope I get over it way before you then,” he mused, taking a drag.

“It’s just so ironic. You spend hours a week working on breathing at yoga and you choose to do  
something that causes breathing challenges.”

“I wouldn’t say I choose it. It’s more like it chooses me.”

“Ah, is that right?”

“I’d say so.”

“Whatever you have to tell yourself.”

“Do you give your brother the same shit for smoking?” Ian questioned. “Cause I know he does.”

“Nah, Mickey was born with a cigarette between his lips. He’s a lost cause.”

“And I’m not?”

“I don’t think so.”

Ian stomped out his smoke before they entered the restaurant and follows the hostess to a table  
smack dab in the middle of the room. “How about we share three rolls? You like them spicy,  
don’t you?”

“Yes and Andrew’s a spice pussy. This is my best date in months,” she clapped happily.

“I’m glad. Mine too. Let’s do the spicy tuna, firecracker, and Hamachi tartar.”  
Mandy nodded. “Sounds fabulous.”

“They waitstaff here’s going to think I have some serious game, coming in once a week with a  
different beautiful woman each time.”

“Don’t make me jealous,” she chided playfully. “Anyway, I think you do have some serious  
game.”

“Tell that to Shaan and my empty bed,” Ian laughed, shaking his head and draping a black napkin  
over his lap.

“I’m starting to think this whole coy thing is just an act.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” he questioned, looking forward to one of Mandy’s theories. He was  
beginning to think hers were only rivaled by his own, at least when it came to Matthew Oliver.

“Well, I know for a fact that you drew the attention of one particular guy who is not easily  
intrigued,” she informed him.

“Now I’m intrigued.”

“My brother.”

“Do you have more than one of those?” he asked dubiously.

“Nope, just the one,” Mandy replied matter-of-factly.

“Mickey?”

“That’s him.”

“Is intrigued by me?” he laughed at the prosperous idea. “Where the fuck are you coming up with  
this?”

“He told me,” she said simply.

“What did he say?”

“You’re interested?”

“In what he said,” Ian clarified.

“And that’s it?” Mandy wondered. “I mean, I don’t blame you after the exchange you had with  
him. I’m just curious.”

“Only in what he said,” he reiterated with a nod.

“Then it’s not worth repeating,” she smirked. “If you aren’t attracted to him, there’s no reason for  
me to go there.”

“I never said I wasn’t attracted to him. I said I wasn’t interested.”

“So why are you acting interested?”

“Just because it’s surprising I guess,” Ian replied with a shrug. “Seriously unexpected.”

“He’s gay and you’re single, smart, successful and gorgeous. How unexpected could it be?”  
Mandy reasoned. “It makes perfect sense, regardless of the fact that you two don’t.”

“Make sense?”

“Right,” she confirmed. “Especially since you’re both focused on beating the other’s ass... not in a  
fun way.”

“Oh winning will be fun,” Ian assured her. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“My man,” Mandy praised, reaching over to slap his hand. “I can’t wait.”

“You can catch it live and in color five months from now.”

“You got a date?”

“November 13th,” Ian confirmed.

She smiled at him. “And you’re feeling good?”

“I’m feeling awesome.”

And he was.

Chapter Twelve: Whatever Helps You Sleep

Mickey liked going to sleep by himself and waking up alone in his king sized bed. Even in the  
dead of winter, when it was difficult to keep his drafty apartment warm, he was glad not to have a  
body beside him. Regardless of how much pleasure that body could give him, he’d never found  
any sex worth forfeiting his solitude for. It wasn’t that he hadn’t had some great sex, he had, but  
that didn’t mean he was willing to stop looking for better. Sometimes he caught himself reflecting  
on why he seemed to want something so different from the majority of people, why the idea of  
finding someone to love seemed so burdensome and unnecessary to him. The best he could come  
up with was that he never witnessed or experienced love. It was so foreign a concept to him that  
he doubted it existed. His mother and father never loved each other and through their abuse and  
neglect, they'd made it quite obvious that they never loved their children either. He wondered if  
their inability to demonstrate an iota of tenderness had made him cold. It seemed obvious that it  
would have, but if it had hardened him, he couldn’t understand how Mandy had remained so soft  
and capable of caring for someone the way she did Andrew.

Though he gave his best friend a ton of shit, he couldn’t deny that his presence in his and Mandy’s  
lives had been pivotal for both of them. While he provided Mandy with a stability she’d never  
experienced, he’d proven to Mickey that it wasn’t always necessary to face the world on his own.  
When it came down to it, maybe he’d found a way to care about Andrew too. Perhaps, their  
friendship was demonstrative of how far he’d truly come, even if it felt like he’d crawled there.

“Let me guess,” Connor said, still breathless from his exertion. “You want me to leave.”

Mickey shrugged as he rolled out of bed and yanked his boxer briefs up his legs. “Don’t think I’ve  
been cryptic about this shit, man.”

“You haven’t,” the younger man conceded, propping himself up on his elbow so he could watch  
Mickey stay as far away from her bed as possible. “I just don’t understand why you keep agreeing  
to see me if you don’t see this going anywhere. It’s been months.”

“That thing you do with your tongue when you’re eating me out...”

“What about it?” Connor questioned.

“You want to understand why I keep agreeing to see you and that’s what it is.”

“Wow,” he remarked, taken aback by the brazen honestly. “That’s all I am to you then? A  
talented tongue?”

“You’re dick isn’t bad either,” Mickey complimented. “Don’t sell yourself short.”

“I think I hate you,” Connor said, as if he was just coming to the realization.

“If you hated me you would’ve fucked off a while ago,” he informed the law student, who was  
wasting no time in yanking on his clothes. “Maybe you just think you want something that you  
don’t really want at all.”

“I feel like you’re doing some weird reverse psychology right now and I can tell you, without a  
shadow of a doubt, that I’m not into it.”

“When have I ever asked you to co-sign any of the shit I say? Hmm?” Mickey questioned. “I’m  
honestly not trying to be a dick, Connor.”

“It just comes so natural to you,” he snarked, causing the older man to let out an exasperated sigh.  
“You don’t even have to try.”

“Listen,” he began, sitting down on the edge of the bed so he was facing the irritated law student  
as he continued to get dressed. “I’ve never hidden my intentions. I’ve always told you exactly  
how it was.”

“I think I’ve stupidly believed that I could change you,” Connor admitted. “I don’t know, made  
you want me more or something.”

Mickey nodded. “Do you want me to say that ‘it’s not you, it’s me’? Because I fucking promise  
you that it is me.”

“I really don’t want you to do that,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “I’m assuming you don’t  
have this type of conversation with every guy you’ve tossed aside?”

“Never spent enough time with them to get here,” Mickey admitted.

“So I’m in the upper echelon of your rebuffed dudes?” Connor asked, suddenly finding the whole  
concept moderately amusing.

“It sounds weird when you put it that way.”

“But I am.”

He shrugged in response.

“So what’s it going to take to get you?” Connor wondered. “There has to be something about  
someone someday that makes you feel like you could fall in love.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you think I should be worried about falling in love? Is it so awful to just not want that?”

“How could you not want to find your person?”

“How could you be willing to give up so much of yourself when you do?” Mickey retorted.

“Fuck, I wish I wasn’t so fucking attracted to you,” Connor said, rubbing his forehead as if he was  
trying to erase memories of Mickey’s naked body from his thoughts. “I feel like we’re breaking  
up.”

“Nothing’s changed over the last ten minutes except for your perception. I’ve always told you the  
same shit. I guess you’re finally starting to listen.”

“So you still want to hook up?”

“As long as we don’t have to have conversations like this one again.”

“How long do we just remain fuck buddies? Do we ever convert to something substantial?”

Mickey shook his head. “What do you want from me? A fucking timeline that doesn’t exist? See,”  
he sighed, gnawing on the inside of his cheek, “this shit’s too goddamn complicated. Nothing  
ruins good sex more than expectations.”

“So you admit the sex is good then?” Connor pushed, moving in closer to Mickey, who  
instinctively pulled away.

“I never said it wasn’t,” he reminded him with an exasperated sigh. “This is...” he shook his head.  
“I have an early day tomorrow.”

“So get the fuck out,” Connor filled in with a snort. “Right?”

“You’ve spent half the night answering yourself.”

“At least I give a shit about giving meaningful answers,” he shot back, giving the older man a  
peck on the lips before he made his way out of the apartment.

Locking the door behind him, Mickey groaned wishing his post-coital bliss hadn’t been  
completely obliterated by Connor’s outpouring of emotion. He made a silent pact with himself not  
to hook up with him again, deciding that the other man’s feelings had finally crossed the threshold  
into too heavy. He took a moment to just relish in the quiet of his dimly lit apartment. There was  
nothing he loved more than the moments of solitude he had in his TriBeCa sanctuary. Though his  
home wasn’t nearly as impressive as any of Andrew’s it was all he needed and more than he  
thought he could ever afford.

Heading into the bathroom, he took a piss, brushed his teeth and stared into the mirror, wondering  
if there was something wrong with him. Every person around him was either telling him he was  
somehow broken or alluding to it, and it had him thinking that maybe he was. Still, he figured  
there wasn’t much use perseverating on it, because as far as crosses to bear went, it didn’t seem  
like a cumbersome enough issue to pay it much mind. Instead, he tucked himself into bed, spread  
out like a starfish, enjoying his aloneness.

When his alarm woke him the next morning, he stretched and sighed, feeling the same way he felt  
at the start of every day, content. He’d managed to put a roof over his head, food in his stomach,  
and a never-ending rotation of dicks in his ass; life was good. He took his time in the shower,  
letting the warm water wash over his smooth skin before finishing the rest of his morning routine.  
There was a tinge or coolness in the air that seduced Mickey into walking to the office rather than  
taking the subway, a decision he regretted when he was still blocks away from work and  
beginning to sweat. Instead of hailing a cab or heading to another metro stop, he opted to get an  
iced coffee to take the edge off.

The line was longer than it was at his usual Starbucks, which he found irritating considering the  
store itself was so small. All the patrons crowded close to each other in the queue, while people  
who already had their drinks attempted to squeeze by. When he heard a voice mutter ‘fuck,’  
behind him, he figured the man was as aggravated as he was, but when he glanced over his  
shoulder to see a certain Assistant District Attorney was nearly flank to his back, he recognized  
that the annoyance was because of him. “Good morning to you too, Sunshine,” he said  
sarcastically, training his eyes on the menu hanging on the wall in front of him.

“It was,” Ian grumbled.

“Until you saw me?” Mickey questioned, swinging around so Ian could see the playful smirk on  
his face. “I have that much of an effect on you, Gallagher?”

“You wish,” the taller man laughed, awkwardly shifting his eyes so they weren’t on Mickey.

“Maybe I do,” he replied, keeping his gaze on Ian until the redhead finally met it, “wish I had that  
much of an effect on you.” He watched the other man squirm at the statement before nodding his  
head and turning back around. Though he couldn’t see them, he could feel green eyes focused on  
his ass.

“That won’t happen,” Ian stated, his voice warbling slightly as he seemingly tried to find his  
conviction.

“Whatever you gotta tell yourself to sleep at night,” the brunet said easily, moving up so he could  
place his order with the barista. Once he was done, he walked to the wall and watched as a  
blushing Ian ordered next. He couldn’t help but chuckle at the way the redhead looked for  
somewhere else to stand after he’d paid before begrudgingly heading towards him.

“What do you tell yourself so you can sleep at night?” he asked. “As a gay man, defending a vile  
bigot, what do you tell yourself?”

“Man, it’s nice having air conditioning.”

Ian rolled his eyes and shook his head. “You feel no sense of outrage about the shit that he says?”

“He’s not worth my anger,” Mickey stated. “Besides, I’ve never watched him speak.”

“Are you serious right now?” Ian asked, clearly floored by the admission.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have either. Your bias is showing.”

“Fuck you,” Ian spat, clenching his jaw tight.

“Another opportunity for me to say I wish,” Mickey replied, raising his eyebrows as went to grab  
his coffee that was waiting on the counter.

“And I can say that won’t happen,” Ian asserted as he strode past him.

“Yeah, okay,” he said, glancing back to give him one last wry grin. His smile got wider when he  
noticed he was still looking.

Chapter Thirteen: Christmas in July

Ian couldn’t help but be shaken up by his run in with Mickey. Even though Mandy had told him  
that her brother had expressed interest, it was difficult for him to believe it, especially when every  
correspondence with the defense attorney had been anything but pleasant. If he didn’t trust his  
friend as much as he did, he would’ve thought the whole thing was a scheme to fuck with him and  
take him off course. While he should’ve been looking forward to the DNA results he was set to  
get back later that morning, he found that his mind was elsewhere, which was most likely what his  
opposing counsel sought to do with his flirting.

Mickey was such a cunning asshole, staring him down with those ocean blue eyes, while smirking  
at him with his full lips. Of all his perfect features, Ian was convinced that his lips were the most  
superlative, so pillowy and pink. He tried to stop himself from thinking about tasting those lips and  
having them taste him, but try as he might, he thought about just that all the way back to the office.

“Ian,” Rachel greeted, biting her lip tentatively as he approached.

“Hey. I’ll be back in a few minutes, I need to go talk to Mandy,” he said, slinking his bag off and  
tossing it into the entry to his office before hurrying down the hall to his friend’s cubicle.

“What’s your brother’s problem?” he demanded, sitting down on the edge of her desk and  
crossing his arms over his chest.

“In general or more specific to a certain situation?” Mandy questioned, tapping the end of her pen  
against her teeth. “How much time do you have?”

“I saw him at Starbucks this morning,” Ian said, dropping his voice low, “and he flirted with me,  
like, a lot.”

“I told you he was into you,” Mandy laughed.

“At Sushi last week you told me that he said something about me but you wouldn’t tell me  
what...”

“I remember,” she assured him.

“What did he say?”

“I thought you didn’t care.”

“I don’t,” Ian stated, doing his best to seem uninterested though he knew the act of standing there  
asking told Mandy otherwise.

“This isn’t what not caring looks like,” she pointed out with a grin.

“He’s trying to psych me out. I need to get into his head before he gets into mine.”

“Ian,” she said gently, placing her hand on her friend’s knee. “He’s not trying to psych you out,  
he’s trying to fuck you.”

“A. No. B. That’s a serious conflict of interest,” he whispered back harshly.

“I can guarantee you that Mickey isn’t worried about the implications of one clandestine roll in the  
hay. The keyword being one. He doesn’t do relationships.”

“Who was asking?” Ian exclaimed, louder than he intended. “Do you think I’m that desperate?

That I’d jump to be with the first guy who showed interest even if it meant putting my career in  
jeopardy?”

“No, of course not,” she replied soothingly. “That’s not what I was trying to say at all. It’s just...”  
she paused. “Mickey’s used to getting what he wants and I don’t want you to become a notch in  
his bedpost when you’re looking to be the center of somebody’s world, okay? I never should’ve  
brought his interest up to begin with. You two aren’t compatible. I just thought it was wild  
because my brother never...” she trailed off.

“He never what?”

“He never goes out of his way to show interest in a guy,” she answered. “It was weird that he  
brought you up to begin with.”

“What did he say?” Ian pressed. “Tell me.”

“He said you were really fucking cute,” she blurted.

The redhead felt his cheeks grow hot in reaction to the admission. “He said it just like that?”

“It’s a direct quote,” she confirmed. “He also said that after the trial he wants to fuck you to get  
you out of his system.”

“What does that even mean?” Ian asked, his eyes wide.

“It means he has a crush on you.”

“To get me out of his system? Who says shit like that?”

“My brother.”

“Fuck, I kind of wish you never told me,” he said didn’t a sigh. “I have to face him in court,  
knowing all this.”

“Screw you, Gallagher,” Mandy cried shaking him on the shoulder with the closest file folder she  
could get her hands on. “You practically begged me to tell you and now you wish you didn’t  
know.”

“I thought it would be something like, ‘he seems nice.’”

Mandy punched out a laugh. “Well, surprise!” She rested her hand on his and looked him straight  
in the eyes. “You said you needed to get into his head, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, now get out,” she suggested with a smile. “It’s dark in there.”

He nodded and gave her hand a squeeze before heading back towards his office. He was surprised  
to find Rachel still waiting by the door. “Sorry, that took longer than I expected.”

“It’s okay,” she said, following him inside. “We got the DNA results.”

“And?” Ian asked, feeling his heart pound in anticipation. Every hope he had for the case was  
now resting on four words: They are a match.

“They aren’t a match.”

“Did you say aren’t?”

“Are not a match,” she repeated sadly. “I’m sorry. I know you put a lot of stock into this theory,  
Ian, but we’re going to have to figure something else out for the motive.”

“Fuck,” he groaned, rubbing his forehead with a trembling hand. “I really thought this was,” he  
sighed, “fuck.”

“The good news is we still have a good amount of time to find something that will stick.”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Goddamn it. Can you give me a minute?”

“Of course,” Rachel replied, hurrying out of the room.

As soon as she shut the door, Ian kicked the base of his desk and threw a notepad against the wall.  
He knew he shouldn’t have gotten so hyper focused on one theory, but it had seemed so probable,  
even though in hindsight he could recognize that it was a long shot. Once again, he found that his  
optimism had made life more difficult for him. More often than not, he stupidly believed things  
would go a certain way because he willed them to, a practice that unceasingly disappointed him  
when it didn’t pan out in his favor.

Tossing himself into his chair, he stared at the fake tree sitting in the corner of the room for what  
seemed like minutes, but was actually an hour. When he finally averted his gaze and glanced at  
the clock, he felt worse than he had when he’d first gotten the news. He shouldn’t have let himself  
get so wrapped up in his hope. He wished he could be cold and pragmatic, approaching the case  
methodically rather than emotionally. He felt he had to be to have a chance at winning, especially  
against a callous bastard like Mickey.

Ian was about to force himself to emerge from his office when his ringing phone halted him. “This  
is Ian,” he said into the receiver, not bothering to check the caller i.d.

“Heard you got some bad news,” Rodney’s gravely voice said on the other end of the line.

“Word travels fast around here.”

“Only about bad things,” the D.A. clarified. “Misery loves company and all that rigamarole.”

“Are you looking for company?”

“Me? No, I’m happy as a clam. My mind’s already checked out of this shit hole.”

“Lucky you,” Ian mumbled, wondering why everyone else’s brains sought to protect them while  
his was not nearly as defensive.

“I am lucky because I have ten earned days off to burn before the big retirement and the wife and I  
decided to go on an Alaskan cruise for the fourth.”

“That should be nice,” he replied, barely able to hide his annoyance. Rodney had been out of  
touch with grunt work for a while, but Ian never expected him to shoot the shit about his vacation  
when he knew he’d just received a devastating blow to his case.

“I’m looking forward to riding on a dogsled.”

“Do they mush in July?”

“Mush?”

“Mushing. That’s what it’s called.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I didn’t look into it, I just know I want to do it.”

“Well, I hope you take picture.”

“You’re a good kid, Ian.”

“Thanks,” he replied impatiently, growing more anxious by the second. He wanted to get off the  
phone and get out of his office, as he was suddenly feeling extremely claustrophobic by his  
surroundings.

“You know, I have a place in the Hamptons...”

“You’ve told me that a few times. Lying on the beach, not giving a shit, playing golf.”

“Yes, all that good stuff,” Rodney confirmed happily. “Anyway, I’d hate to leave it empty on July  
4th. It’s the best time of the year! I really think it would do you well to let loose and enjoy the  
environment.”

“What are you saying?”

“If you want the keys for the week of the fourth, they’re yours. And don’t you even try to give me  
any bullshit excuses of why you can’t go. I know you’re off and you’d be doing me a favor.”

“Oh yeah? How?” he asked skeptically.

“I told you I wanted you to ruin Matthew Oliver and there’s no way in hell you're going to be able  
to do that if you’re overworked and underpartied. I selfishly want you to let loose so you can  
come back and be your best self.”

“So my best self is unprepared and hungover?” he laughed.

“Sounds like me in my glory years.”

“Rod, it’s a really nice offer but...”

“Don’t be a prick,” the older man interrupted. “When somebody offers you something nice you  
take it and say thank you. Where are your manners?”

“I’ll go. It’s a really generous offer. Thank you,” Ian said, determined to tell the man what he  
wanted to hear and make a decision later.

“See, that wasn’t so difficult was it?”

“Not at all.”

“Good. You know, there are lots of gays around the Hamptons, but if you’re really looking for a  
bunch of them, they hang around Fire Island. It’s not far and I hear it’s like the gay Disneyland.  
There are flags and glitter, boats, all kinds of flamboyantness.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll have Margie print you out Mapquest directions of how to get there.”

“You don’t have to... I mean, she doesn’t have to,” he shook his head. “I’ll find it.”

“Follow the fairy dust,” he said with hearty laugh. “I’ll put the key to my place and the print outs  
of the directions to get you there in your mailbox tomorrow.”

“Okay, uh, thanks Rodney.”

“Not a problem,” he promised, “but do me a favor.”

“What is it?” Ian asked tentatively, nervous to hear what shit was going to come out of the old  
man’s mouth next.

“Have fun, alright? There’s nothing wrong with fun.”

Letting out a sigh, Ian assured him that he would and hung up the phone. With the walls closing in  
and everything falling apart, the Hamptons didn’t sound like a bad idea at all. In fact, he was  
pretty sure an escape was just what he needed.

Chapter Fourteen: Out of This World

It was strange how the sight of his sister demanding that the event coordinator have the napkins  
fixed at her and Andrew’s Fourth of July barbecue wasn’t as outlandish to Mickey as it would  
have been a couple of years ago. Now, watching her bitch about the wrong color blue in the grand  
foyer of a Hamptons mansion didn’t raise an eyebrow, even when she was doing so in a bikini  
and silk kimono. There was a time, in the not so distant past, in which they had been more worried  
about putting food on the table than the right napkins, and when they harshly judged the people  
they didn’t know they’d one day become. For a while, Mickey had tried to fight the  
transformation, to hold on to the delinquent teenager who wanted to fuck the system, eventually  
deciding that there was a way to rage against the machine while making a career for himself, so  
that was what he did.

“Let it go,” he groaned as he walked past her, towards the room he’d dubbed his own.

“Periwinkle doesn’t scream July 4th,” his sister yelled after him, “cobalt does!”  
Mickey laughed, unable to get it up to even retort the asinine worry. There was no way he was  
going to survive the wedding planning that was no doubt coming down the pike. He wondered if  
he’d be able to persuade them that eloping in Antarctica or anywhere far away from him would be  
their best bet. Stepping out of his wet swim trunks, he pulled on boxer briefs and a pair of dark  
wash jeans and looked at his body in the mirror. It had been over a week since he’d gotten laid  
and his pale skin was far too pristine for his liking. He wanted bite marks, scratches, sore muscles,  
and he was pretty damn positive who he wanted to give them to him, even though it seemed like  
that was a far-fetched fantasy. Even if he somehow finagled his way into Ian Gallagher’s pants, he  
feared that the handsome man would be a tentative puppy in bed.

Though Mandy had tried to be discrete when she took a phone call across the pool deck earlier  
that day, Mickey could tell by the way that she kept glancing back at him that she was speaking to  
Ian. The smile on her face when the call concluded, informed him that she was victorious in her  
crusade to have him attend the barbecue later that afternoon.

“So is he going to show?” Mickey had asked, earning him a middle finger from his sister.

“Stay away from him,” she’d warned. “He thinks you’re fucking with him and it’s stressing him  
out. He didn’t even want to come.”

“What a fucking pussy,” he’d mused, but he couldn’t help but think the whole thing was  
ridiculously appealing. He was so used to guys being disingenuously cocky in their approach that  
Ian’s affect was new and so damn interesting. Maybe that’s why he was endlessly curious about  
him.

He put on a black t-shirt, brushed his teeth, and ran some gel through his hair before heading into  
the kitchen where he found Andrew standing with his arms crossed over his chest, watching the  
cater waiters scramble to carry chafing dishes of food to the backyard.

“Seems like you’re working hard,” Mickey said, taking a jumbo shrimp off the platter in front of  
him and popping it into his mouth.

“Mick,” the anxious man chided, rearranging the crustaceans so there wasn’t a space between  
them.

“You fucking serious?” he asked screwing down his eyebrows. “Isn’t this shit here to be eaten?”

“Yes, when the guests come,” Andrew replied.

“I don’t live here,” Mickey reminded him. “So technically,” he picked up another shrimp, “I’m a  
guest.”

“I haven’t been able to get rid of your ass for the last decade or however long, so, no, you’re not a  
guest. You’re a barnacle.”

“That’s your pussification talking,” he said, clapping his best friend on the back. “Mandy’s got  
you fucked up.”

“Yeah well, did you see the napkins? She’s not wrong.”

“I…” Mickey began, shaking his head and letting out a sigh. He decided it wasn’t worth  
continuing the thought. Making his way out to the backyard, he grabbed a beer off the beverage  
table and relaxed in a lounge chair, while Mandy and Andrew spiraled inside. As antsy as they  
were about a dumb party, he had to admit that everything looked really nice. White twinkle lights  
adorned the trees and huge glowing red, white and blue orbs floated in the pool making the  
already impressive space look even more magical.

It wasn’t long until guests began to arrive, none of which Mickey found interesting enough to get  
up and greet. Instead, he continued to watch the rise and fall of the waves as the placid ocean  
glistened with silver streaks from the setting sun - until he saw him. Ian was standing with a small  
group of people, sipping a drink, looking more gorgeous than any sunset he had ever seen. From  
the warm tone of his hair to the star-like dusting of freckles that formed constellations over his skin,  
he was celestial. Mickey worried if he stared at him for too long, he’d cause permanent damage to  
his eyes that would never let him see anybody else. Still, he couldn’t look away. He’d never seen  
him dressed so casual and seem so loose. The white collared shirt he was wearing was left  
untucked from his jeans and the sleeves were rolled up. His whole face gleamed as he laughed at  
something one of the men was saying, that was until he noticed Mickey, and the smile dropped  
away. Of all his regrets, and he had many, Mickey contemplated if his greatest was yet to come.  
Getting up from the chaise, he went to grab another beer before approaching the circle where Ian  
was still standing.

“What’s up, Shark!” his acquaintance, Calvin greeted, shaking his hand. “How have you been.”

“Alright,” Mickey replied, licking his lips as he watched Ian avert his eyes.

“Ian, Graham, have you met Mickey Milkovich, blood-thirsty-defense-attorney —extraordinaire?”

“That’s one hell of an introduction,” Graham laughed, extending his hand to Mickey.

“Yeah, well, he’s a hell of a guy,” Calvin asserted, grinning at the brunet who was sliding his  
hand in his pocket when he realized Ian wasn’t going to shake it. “Have you two met?” the  
loudmouthed man prodded, ignoring the awkwardness.

“We have,” Mickey answered, with a nod, “but I think he’s trying to forget that as best as he can.”

“Good luck with that,” Calvin teased, slapping Ian on the back. “So like I was saying,” he  
continued, going back to the story he was telling in a very animated fashion.

Unable to feign interest, even if it meant remaining in Ian’s company, Mickey was moving to  
break away from the group when he felt a hand rest on the small of his back. He snapped his head  
around to see Connor standing beside him.

“Hey,” the law student said smoothly, wrapping him up in hug. Mickey stood stiff as a board in  
the embrace, wondering why the fuck he was acting so goddamn chummy anyway.

“What’s going on?” he asked, sniffing uncomfortably as his eyes darted to Ian. Much to his  
chagrin, his crush had definitely noticed the strained exchange, but Mickey couldn’t help but perk  
up when he realized how displeased it seemed to make the otherwise passive redhead.

“You look good,” Connor told him softly, licking his lips as he very obviously checked Mickey  
out.

“Yeah, uh, you too,” he said, more for Ian’s ears than the man he was speaking to. He couldn’t  
help but grin when he saw his opposing counsel looking everywhere but at them, as if doing so  
would burn his retinas, too.

“Who’s your friend, Mickey?” Calvin asked, ever the connector.

“This is Connor,” he answered, watching each of the men introduce themselves to his hook-up.

Unsurprisingly, Ian ducked out of the conversation moments later, saying he needed to get another  
drink.

And drink he did. Not that Mickey was counting, but over the next several hours Ian had four and  
half beers and about 5/8ths of the daiquiri Mandy kept shoving in his face. No matter how much  
Mickey tried to busy himself with talking to the boring-ass revelers, he couldn’t seem to stop  
tracking every one of Ian’s movements while simultaneously sidestepping Connor’s.  
It wasn’t until he watched the other man pat his back pocket to check on his cigarettes and walk  
the long deck towards the beach that he decided it was time to make his move.

“Don’t,” Mandy warned, tugging his wrist as he walked by her so she could force him to look her  
in the eyes, “for a million reasons, don’t.”

“Chill out,” he huffed, shaking her off. “I’m just going to smoke.”

“Mickey,” she practically pleaded.

“Give me your best reason,” he ordered, raising his eyebrows expectantly and rolling his lips  
under his teeth. “C’mon. Give me the best one and I won’t go down there.”

“Top three?” she asked, sighing when he nodded. “Okay. 1. It’s a major conflict. You might not  
care, but he will. 2. You’re going to hurt him if you hook up with him and then fuck off like you  
always do. 3. I don’t want you to hurt him. He’s my friend and I care about him.”

“1. If he gives that much of a shit he won’t do it. 2. Who said I’m going to fuck off…”

“History,” Mandy interrupted, “and you, you said it yourself a few weeks ago. You wanted to  
bang him to get him out of your system.”

“3,” he continued, ignoring his own words being thrown back in his face, “I’m your brother.”

“So?”

“Blood’s thicker than water. You’re on my side.”

“No I’m fucking not,” she exclaimed putting her hands on her hips, aggravated by the assumed  
loyalty. “You’re a slut and he’s a good guy. I’m not on your side, not with this.”

“Is that all?”

“None were compelling enough?”

“Not as compelling as his face,” he replied matter-of-factly, “but don’t feel bad about your  
persuasive skills, Mands. His mug would’ve been really fucking hard for anybody to beat.”

With that, he followed the same path Ian took to get down to the beach, lighting up a cigarette on  
the way. At the base of the deck, he caught sight of the other man leaning against one of the  
support beams that held the deck over the expanse below it. High tide had the shore almost  
entirely engulfed, save the stretch of sand Ian was standing on. Aside from the glow of his  
cigarette, the only light that illuminated him was that of the moon and the speckled reflection of  
the twinkling lights above them as they danced on the ocean spread at his feet.

“Why are you down here?” Ian asked, his voice equal parts nervous and annoyed.

“You know why I’m down here,” Mickey replied, walking only far enough to rest his shoulder  
against the beam across from the other man.

Pulling in a deep inhale, Ian shook his head and tapped the paper so orange embers of ash  
fluttered to meet the water. “Wish you weren’t.”

“All you got to do is tell me to go and I’m gone,” he stated, taking a drag as he eyed him down.

“Tell me to go.” Concentrating on Ian’s lips, Mickey grinned when they remained closed. “That’s  
what I thought.” Tossing his cigarette, he closed the space between them and rested his hands on  
the redhead’s narrow hips. “Look at me,” he urged, drawing Ian’s downcast eyes up to meet his.

“You got me going crazy, man. Can’t stop thinking about this.”

“Thinking about what?” Ian whispered, his words nearly stolen by Mickey’s lascivious tongue  
making its way into his mouth.

As the redhead kissed him back, for Mickey, the planet ceased to orbit, leaving only his head to  
spin.

Chapter Fifteen: Guest House Guests

Every limb in Ian’s body tingled as Mickey Milkovich kissed him like he was set to steal his heart  
through his mouth. In the back of his fuzzy mind, Ian tried to remember that the other man was a  
player and any emotion felt during the kiss was strictly his own. To counterbalance his propensity  
to get swept away when in the arms of a beguiling man, Ian willed himself to feel nothing. With  
every fiber of his being he demanded his body stay tethered to the sand below him, feet planted  
firmly on the ground. Oddly enough, as surprisingly sweet as the kiss was, the practice seemed to  
work, and before he knew it, he was pushing the other man off him.

“I don’t like you,” Ian stated breathlessly, wiping his mouth with his forearm.

“Okay,” Mickey replied, sliding a hand under the hem of Ian’s shirt so his warm fingertips could  
tickle the trail of red hair that made its way from his belly button to his groin. “Fuck,” he muttered,  
shaking his head as his touch dipped into the ridges of taut abdominal muscles, “wish you did,  
cause I like you.”

Before Ian could hold back, he was leaning into another kiss, too gone to wonder why he was so  
hungry for a man who frustrated him boundlessly. Raising his palm to Mickey’s scruffy cheek, he  
let himself melt, lips twisted and tongues tangled, unable to get enough. As they tilted their heads  
in opposite directions and switched intermittently, the soft curses that tumbled from Mickey’s  
mouth made it increasingly obvious why the brunet had left a slew of broken hearted men in his  
wake; like he was doing to Ian, he no doubt made them feel special, too. Like he lived and died by  
the taste of their lips.

“Stop kissing me like that,” Ian urged amidst the smooch, opening his eyes slightly so he could see  
the other man intently connected to his mouth.

“What? Well?” he asked with a laugh, licking his lips wantonly. “You want me to kiss you  
shitty?”

“You’re making me dizzy.”

Mickey smiled and lifted his eyebrows as he dragged his palms up either side of the redhead’s  
torso ever so slowly and over his pecs.

The tenderness sent shock waves through Ian’s body, each inch of his skin alive under his touch.  
When Mickey rested his hands at the base of his neck and pulled him back into the kiss, Ian  
stopped caring about anything but his want. Made relatively fearless from hormones and beer, he  
muttered, “I wanna fuck you.”

“You want to do what?” Mickey asked, the moon casting a flicker of fire in his mischievous eyes.

“You heard me,” Ian asserted. Everything he had thought he’d known about the Oliver case was  
fucked up beyond recognition, and giving a shit about the ethics of it all was too heavy a burden  
for his tired back to hold, especially when his body was under the influence of Mickey and  
alcohol. Though he knew his conscience would sober up when he did, and he’d most likely hate  
himself in the morning, he didn’t want to stop.

“How do you know I take it? Hmm? What if I want to fuck you?” Mickey challenged, removing  
his hands from Ian so he could nudge a knuckle against his nostril and stare the other man down.

“The only way you’re going to fuck me is if that ass is riding my cock. You can fuck me like that  
if you want,” he said so callously that he barely recognized his own tone. For some reason, the  
fact that Mickey assumed he was going to bend over like a bitch and take it for him, enraged him.  
The asshole thought Ian was so malleable, but he’d show him that he wasn’t, just like he did with  
Matthew Oliver’s plea deal.

“Alright,” Mickey agreed easily, giving him a look that Ian struggled to read.

“Alright?”

“Mmmhmm,” he confirmed with a smirk. “I thought you were a shitty negotiator, but it turns out  
you’re alright.”

Ian backed away from him a bit and leaned against the support beam again. “I feel like you’re  
messing with me right now, but I’m kinda too wasted to care.”

“I probably shouldn’t fuck you tonight if you’re so wasted,” Mickey stated. “Don’t want there to  
be any doubt about consent.”

“You’re such a lawyer,” Ian chided, crinkling his nose in annoyance “and besides, we’ve already  
established that I’m fucking you.”

“All you’re doing right now is a lot of talking.”  
Ian rolled his eyes and gave the brunet the finger. “Come here.”

“You’re giving me a lot of mixed signals here,” Mickey pointed out, moving closer to Ian, who  
grabbed him by the ass as soon as he was within reach and yanked him the rest of the way.  
The redhead licked and sucked on the softest spots of Mickey’s neck, intoxicated by the heady  
smell of his skin. “Are you sure you want this?” Ian asked, his voice muffled and soaked in need.

“We’re fucking, man,” he snarked, moaning softly as Ian focused on a particularly sensitive spot  
while kneading his ass, “I’ve done it a few times before.”

“I’m going to ruin you,” Ian informed him in a tone so serious it took Mickey aback and prompted  
him to break out in laughter.

“Oh yeah?” he asked, thoroughly amused. “How’re you going to do that?”

“You’ll see,” Ian answered, pecking the brunet’s lips.

“I gotta be honest,” Mickey began, clearing his throat. “Guys pulling that faux cockiness shit and  
then fucking me like we’re in middle school is my biggest turnoff, Gallagher. You’re sexy as hell,  
but if you keep talking like that and don’t back it up,” he clicked his tongue, “I won’t even let you  
fuck me until we finish.”

It was Ian’s turn to laugh, and laugh he did, so hard that he had tears streaming down his freckled  
face. “You really are a prick, you know that? Who the fuck says shit like that?”

“I’m honest.”

“You’re a defense attorney,” Ian guffawed, practically gasping for breath, “an honest defense  
attorney?”

“I like you better sober.”

“I like you better when I’m drunk.”

“Then I’ll deal with it,” Mickey said with a grin. “Let’s go.” He started to walk back to the deck  
but halted when he realized the other man wasn’t following. “What’s up?”

“I don’t want anyone to see us,” he confessed. “There are a ton of lawyers here.”

“I have keys to the guest house. We’ll go around the side.”

As they walked to the accessory structure, Ian worked to silence the voice of dissent in his head  
that was growing stronger with every step he took. By the time Mickey unlocked the back door of  
the house, his conscience was no longer dormant and yelling for him not to do it, but his body was  
screaming louder. There was no more laughter, banter or doubt, there were only hungry lips and  
grinding hips as desperate hands worked to undress the other man.

Mickey’s vehemence was addictive as he placed his palms on the sides of Ian’s cheeks and kissed  
him down to the couch, climbing on top of him. Tilting his head so he could try to get a look at the  
naked body grinding into him, Ian finally lost his patience and moved his mouth away.

“What the fuck?”

“I need to see you,” he said, propping himself up by his elbows as Mickey continued to sit on his  
hip bones with his knees draped on either side of his waist. Gazing at Ian, he began to tug on his  
cock, a clear indication that he was ready to get the show on the road. “Damn.” If he had been  
tasked to craft the physical attributes of his perfect man, Mickey would tick off every box with his  
broad, toned chest, slim stomach and thick thighs.

“I should be saying that,” the brunet stated. “Haven’t really gotten a chance to get a good look at  
your dick but I feel like I got a baseball bat knocking into my back right now.”

“Why don’t you sit on my face and get a closer look at it?” Ian suggested, biting his lip as Mickey  
shifted his position so he was resting his full ass on his chin and staring down at the cock that was  
standing at the ready, waiting for attention.

“Shit,” they breathed in unison, both floored by the perfection of the body parts being presented  
before them. Without wasting any time, they went to work, burying their faces into the intimate  
places, their mouths intent to give the other man as much pleasure as possible. Narrowing his  
tongue to push past the tight muscles of Mickey’s hole, Ian did his best to prep him, though his  
concentration was blown by the way the brunet was blowing him.

“Such a big cock,” Mickey crooned, the honey dripping from his tone was uncharacteristic  
enough to startle Ian and halt his eating entirely. “Want to see how it can pound me out.”

“Yeah?” he asked, glad that the brunet ignored the way his voice cracked with the question, an  
action that would have no doubt prompted an onslaught of teasing in other situations. It was  
strange how much softer Mickey seemed with a dick in his face.

“Yeah,” he confirmed, reaching into the drawer of the end table and magically producing a tube of  
lube. Ian tried not to focus on the readiness of the KY and how it alluded to just how much cock  
he got in that precise spot. While Mickey slicked up his fingers and made quick work of finishing  
his prep, Ian crossed the room to open his wallet and get a condom out of the flap.

Pushing Mickey’s hand away, Ian wet his digits and finished the job, wiping the remainder of the  
lube around the brunet’s entry before tearing the foil and rolling the condom onto his dick. The  
amount of tension leading up to them actually getting to that point had been staggering, and Ian  
hoped he was able to last, especially after getting the warning from Mickey earlier. There was no  
way his pride would survive his opposing counsel telling him to fuck off mid-fuck.

He reached down to pull Mickey’s ass cheeks apart once more, pushing his thumb in to admire  
how ideal it was. “Can’t wait to fuck you.”

“Do it then,” Mickey urged, lifting his hips a bit, showing how ready he was to be full.

That was all Ian needed to hear to line his head up with the waiting entry and dip just the tip inside  
of him. Slowly, he teased Mickey, inching in to the ridge before pulling out only to slide in again.  
When his lover was panting and whining for his cock in a way that made it impossible not to  
bottom out, Ian thrusted in, adhering his lips to Mickey’s as he relished in the feeling of being  
surrounded by him. They made out as Ian rocked into him slowly, building pace as their kisses  
grew more fervent.

Moderately concerned that his approach may be deemed ‘too middle school’ by the critic, Ian  
grabbed both of Mickey’s ankles and pushed his legs back so his ass was aimed at the ceiling.  
Getting into a better mounting position, he squatted to gain leverage and fucked into him hard.  
Every long, strong stroke had Mickey’s cries of pleasure gaining volume. When Ian’s balls were  
slapping hard against the meat of his cheeks and his body was completely folded in half, the  
brunet reached down to jack himself off, a sign that it wouldn’t be long.

“This ass,” Ian groaned. “You’re gonna destroy me with this ass.” The confession was from his  
guts, and about much more than the flood of cum he was about to empty into the condom.

“Get it,” Mickey urged, throwing his head back and pumping his hand hard as Ian drilled him.  
“I’m fucking done,” he sighed, squeezing his eyes closed tightly as he moaned and shook through  
his orgasm.

Ian wasn’t far behind, focusing on his lover’s sated face and how much of his jizz he’d splattered  
onto his own chest. He kissed Mickey through his release, collapsing in a breathless heap once he  
was done.

The air was heavier that it had been moments ago and everything was eerily quiet, as if their  
libidos had erupted and left nothing but a mess.

“I don’t want to miss the fireworks,” Ian said suddenly, shooting up and jumping off the confused  
brunet.

“Seriously?” Mickey asked, watching the redhead scramble into his clothes. “Am I supposed to  
say some corny ass shit like ‘we just set off fireworks?’”

Ian paused and gave him a shy smile, shaking his head. “No, I don’t think you should say that.”

“I wasn’t fucking going to,” Mickey shot back defensively. “What am I supposed to say? That’s  
what I’m asking.”

“Bye?” Ian offered, sliding his wallet into his pocket.

“Okay,” Mickey nodded uncomfortably, “Bye.”

Chapter Sixteen: Feeling Things

Shell-shocked didn’t even begin to describe Mickey’s reaction as he stood naked and slack-jawed  
in the middle of the guest house living room. Due to the big-fucking-deal his sister had made  
about Ian’s precious emotions, he’d intended to chill for a bit and maybe let the guy fuck him  
again. What he hadn’t been expecting, was for the delicate flower to run out like his crotch was on  
fire, leaving him reeling in his wake. The sex wasn’t just good; it was fucking fantastic, another  
variable that he hadn’t anticipated and threw him for a loop. If it wasn’t for the ache in his ass, he  
would’ve thought he’d imagined the whole thing, from the passionate kisses under the deck to the  
plowing he’d received on the couch just moments before. Though he’d fantasized about Ian, and  
had done so relatively often, his mind had never given the redhead as much confidence as he’d  
actually displayed in the flesh and it certainly hadn’t endowed him as well as his genes had. The  
concept of the meek, sensitive man ‘ruining’ him in the sack had been laughable, until he did just  
that.

Mickey couldn’t determine any reason why the romp with redhead should be a one-time deal, but  
for some inexplicable reason, his brain decided to torture him, pondering how many men had  
thought the same about him. Rubbing his forehead, he tried to work past his feelings, and the fact  
that he was having any at all. He’d barely gotten a chance to enjoy the other man’s body; the time  
with him a blur of lips and limbs that he desperately wanted to relive. How fucking annoying.  
Cleaning up before putting his clothes back on, Mickey locked the guest house door and made his  
way back to the party, which was in full swing with dozens of wasted people moving their bodies  
on the temporary LED dance floor set on the East side of the yard. Among them were Mandy and  
Ian, holding hands as they danced with bright smiles on their faces. It was strange to think that just  
moments ago, Ian was on top of him, inside him, consuming him and now he was going about his  
business like he hadn’t just had the fuck of his life. Mickey couldn’t help but be aggravated at how  
happy he looked, feeling peculiarly entitled to have him staring at him the way he was focused on  
his sister. Coming to terms with the possibility that he’d lost his mind, the lawyer grabbed a beer,  
popped the top, and did his best to stop creeping on the other man’s good time. Since he’d  
somehow lost every shred of self-control he’d ever had, he was back to surveilling shortly after  
he’d made the commitment not to.

Though he’d tried to be discrete, he knew he was caught when a pair of brown eyes locked onto  
his. Feeling a lump rise in his throat, he watched as Connor said something to Mandy and cut in  
on the pair, placing his hands on an amused Ian’s thin hips. A glance in Mickey’s direction,  
confirmed that his former hook-up was trying to make him jealous, not realizing that he was, but  
not in the way he’d intended. When Connor leaned in to whisper something in Ian’s ear, Mickey  
finally decided that he’d had enough. Seeing Ian glow with Connor the way he had with Mandy,  
stung like motherfucker. He didn’t know how to contend with the feeling that he wanted the  
redhead’s smiles reserved for him.

“Fuck,” he grumbled, pressing the heels of his palms against his eye sockets.

“Got rejected, huh?” Mandy said sympathetically, resting a hand on her brother’s shoulder. “I  
would say I’m surprised, but I’m not. Ian’s super ethical. I wouldn’t take it personally.”

“You think I give a shit?” he asked with a wry laugh. “I got a fucking headache because the shitty  
D.J. you hired thinks scratching every two seconds makes him legit.”

“So you did get rejected and just don’t care?” she pressed, licking her lips. “I don’t understand  
why you’re so into it anyway. I mean, he’s hot, I get that, but is it about the conquest? Do you  
want to fuck around with him so he has to look at you across the courtroom and remember how he  
gave it up to you? Make him powerless in some way? Throw him off his game? You should be  
worried about building a case strong enough that you don’t have to do that.”

“Don’t worry about my case or where I stick my dick, alright?” Mickey snapped, shaking his head  
at how off-base Mandy was.

“Mands,” Andrew called to her from the edge of the deck. “The fireworks are starting any  
minute.”

She waved her acknowledgment and turned to give Mickey one more piece of her mind. “Only  
you could be so grumpy at a party,” she chided before stomping away.

The sea breeze was temperate as it caused the orbs of light in the pool to gently knock against one  
another. Any other time he wouldn’t have given a shit about the feature, but he found it easier to  
stare mindlessly at it than at Ian. A sudden boom had his eyes shooting up to the sky. As he took  
in the colorful display, he couldn’t help but contemplate if it was worth it for the man who’d made  
it such a priority to catch them and from the look on his face, it was. Even from a distance, he  
could see the reflection of the fireworks in Ian’s eyes, the light illuminating the twinkle of hope  
and idealism that he’d so easily recognized the moment they’d met, the ever present glimmer of  
optimism that drew him in. He wondered what Ian saw when he looked in his; if anything held his  
attention or intrigued him. He also wondered why he gave a shit. Shaking his head as if he was  
attempting to shake him off, he tossed his empty bottle into the recycling bin, grabbed another cold  
one, and headed into the house.

He was nearly to his room when he heard Connor call his name. Swinging around, he looked at  
the man who he’d formerly liked enough to continue fucking, but suddenly couldn’t stand the  
sight of.

“Who skips out on 4th of July fireworks?” Connor asked, moving closer to Mickey who  
continued to retreat while still facing him.

“You?” he stated with a click of his tongue. “You’re here, so...”

“I followed you.”

“No shit,” Mickey laughed, “and why’s that?”

“You were watching me dance with that guy. You know you could have me, exclusively, if you  
wanted that, but you don't, right?”

“No I don’t,” he answered more patiently than he had in the past. Something about the experience  
with Ian compelled him to soften the rejection, at least a little bit. “I honestly don’t want anything  
from you and it has nothing to do with you and everything to do with me, okay? Let’s put this shit  
to bed already.”

With that, he walked down the hall to his room, locked the door and threw himself down on the  
bed. The pulse of bass and the din of laughter filled the air outside his window, as he chugged the  
contents of his beer bottle and rolled it across the wood floor. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt miles  
away from other people, but it was the first time he cared. Instead of perseverating on the flood of  
novel feelings, he assured himself that he’d stop being so weird when he sobered up and he was  
right. He woke up the next day significantly less affected than he had been hours earlier.

“Morning,” he muttered as he crossed the kitchen to pull a carton of orange juice out of the  
refrigerator. His decision to forego a glass and pour it straight down his throat earned him a smack  
upside his head from his sister and a ‘c’mon’ from Andrew, who was sitting at the table reading  
the morning paper.

“Other people drink that, dickbreath,” Mandy admonished. “People who don’t want to share  
germs with your dirty mouth.”

Mickey flicked her off while taking another sip for good measure. After placing the juice back into  
the refrigerator, he hovered over the pan of eggs Mandy was scrambling and asked, “where’s the  
cheese?”

“I’m not a short order cook,” she stated. “If you want cheese take it out and put your portion in the  
microwave.”

“It’s better when it melts in the pan,” Mickey informed her. “They get rubbery when I nuke  
them.”

“This is me not giving a shit.”

He studied her face and saw it was quite clear that she didn’t. “You’re saltier than usual this  
morning,” he said. “I hope the eggs aren’t.”

“She’s a little hungover,” Andrew told him, garnering a glare from his girlfriend. “Anyway, we’re  
taking the boat out on the marina today if you want to join.”

“Nah, I don’t need to join you tools on The Love Boat. Have your alone time or whatever.”

“Well, we would’ve been having alone time if Little Miss Tipsy over here didn’t invite half of the  
Hamptons last night,” Andrew teased.

“It’s just a few people,” Mandy defended, “and you know it will be fun.” She gave him a kiss on  
his cheek as she placed a plate of eggs in front of him.

“Where are mine?” Mickey asked.

“In the pan waiting for you to put cheese on them,” she answered, sitting down and digging into  
her breakfast.

“It would’ve taken you like five seconds,” he complained, getting up to fetch his food.

“And now it’s going to take you five seconds,” Mandy said simply. “Better you than me since  
they’re yours.”

“Whatever.” He used the opportunity when his back was facing them to ask as nonchalantly as  
possible. “So, who’s going today?”

“Nobody you have to worry about,” she said, “because you’re not interested in coming.”

“He said he wasn’t interested when he thought it was the two of us,” Andrew corrected.

“When has Mickey ever joined us on the boat, hmm?”

“Well, todays a perfect day for him to start,” Andrew said grinning at his best friend. “Come with  
us, Mick. Mandy invited a bunch of people from work that I don’t know. It’s going to blow.”

“Really?” Mandy exclaimed, shaking her head.

“You really know how to sell shit, B.J.,” Mickey teased with a smirk. “You’re lucky for nepotism,  
man.”

“Har, har, har.” Andrew laughed sarcastically, making a face at his friend, who was entirely  
unfazed.

“I’ll come,” he decided, giving his sister a shit-eating grin. “I’m sure it’ll be a nice view out there.”

The look she gave him was rife with confusion and irritation, but he went about eating his eggs,  
even though his stomach was flipping.

Chapter Seventeen: Rough Waters Ahead

A long weekend of relaxation would have been much more therapeutic to Ian if he’d had the  
power to slow his mind down in the moments he was supposed to be at rest. He found that it was  
in the quietest times that his anxiety ran amuck. The deluge of beer had done wonders to silence  
his worry, but it had also lowered his inhibitions enough to welcome a slew of new problems, all  
centered around a man he shouldn’t have fucked. There were a plethora of reasons banging  
Mickey had been a horrible idea, the most obvious being how unethical it was. The last thing he  
needed during a very complicated, incredibly publicized trial was to get caught fraternizing with  
his opposing counsel. Not only would it destroy his reputation, it would tear apart everything he’d  
worked for, sacrificed for, strived for.

While the lack of professionalism should have been a compelling enough argument to keep Ian  
from banging Mickey, he knew it was just the tip of the iceberg. Risking everything for love was  
wildly romantic notion, but jeopardizing his future for someone who no doubt would never see  
one with him was lunacy. Mandy had made it abundantly clear that her brother was incapable of  
anything long-term, even going so far as to refer to him as aromantic. Regardless of how hard Ian  
had tried not to allow his physical attraction towards Mickey to fog over the fact that he was an  
asshole, as soon as the brunet had opened the flirting floodgate, he was washed away.  
Though Ian hadn’t dated much, he wasn’t desperate. If he’d been ready to drop his drawers for  
any guy who showed him attention, he would’ve been pant-less for a week. It just so happened  
that Mickey intrigued him in ways he wished he hadn’t. He was arrogant, handsome, and  
exhibited just about every other characteristic that screamed ‘bad boy danger,’ and like so many  
damaged people before him, Ian couldn’t help but be hopelessly drawn to the poor behavior.  
As expected, fucking him had done absolutely nothing to help assuage the attraction. Instead,  
actually touching and tasting him had done precisely what he feared it would, it made him want  
him more. Unsure of how to cope with the very big feelings he shouldn’t have been experiencing  
multiple reasons, he’d run out of the guest house, gotten more drunk, and danced with the guy  
who had been flirting with Mickey earlier in the night. Though he knew it was for the better that  
he hadn’t, he couldn’t deny that he’d spent the remainder of the night wishing Mickey made  
another move on him, that somehow showed that he was down for more than just one screw and  
he hated himself for hoping it, as if everything wasn’t convoluted enough.

With an anxious mind and restless body, Ian walked onto the deck of Andrew’s luxury catamaran,  
intent on having a good afternoon even though he knew he should’ve been headed back to the  
City to focus on work.

“Hey!” Mandy exclaimed, giving him a hug as he boarded. “I’m so glad you could make it. Did  
you get a chance to meet Andrew last night?” she asked, gesturing to the preppy man standing  
beside her.

“Momentarily,” Ian replied, shaking Andrew’s hand. “Looking forward to getting a chance to chat  
more today.”

“And vice versa,” the blond said companionably. “You’re the last to arrive, so I’m going to go get  
us ready to shove off.”

“Do you need help?” Mandy asked, rubbing Andrew’s arm.

“No, go chill with your friends.”

She gave him kiss with her perfectly glossed lips before she smiled at Ian. “I think everyone is in  
the salon. Let’s go check it out.”

He nodded, following Mandy into the social area, which was fully enclosed by glass, adorned  
with modern furnishings and fully air conditioned. The level of wealth was staggering. Ian had  
spent the majority of his life in comfortable middle class settings, and while he’d been around  
people of greater means, the Hamptons seemed to display a different stratum of extravagance.

“Look who it is!” Horacio, one of Mandy’s fellow paralegals in the District Attorney’s office,  
greeted.

“The principal came out!” Lydia teased, with a grin.

“You told them?” Ian asked elbowing Mandy’s arm.

“It’s cute!” she stated, pinching her friend’s cheeks.

“We heard you showed last night but rolled out like you were going to turn into a pumpkin before  
we even made it,” Lydia said, popping a cheese cube into her mouth.

“Well if I knew you guys were going to show I would’ve hung around,” Ian informed her  
warmly. He didn’t spend a lot of time with the paralegals, which was unfortunate because they  
seemed to have a good amount of fun together outside the office.

“Didn’t have much to stay for?” Mickey questioned from where he was lounging on the couch,  
drinking a beer. He was wearing a simple white t-shirt, grey checkered swim trunks, and looking  
impossibly attractive. Ian had thought Mickey was gorgeous from the moment he laid eyes on  
him, but now that he’d seen the body that was hidden under his clothes, he found him even more  
spectacular.

Unsure how to respond, he kept his eyes focused on Mickey’s for a beat too long, tearing them  
away when Horacio informed him:

“We made a promise not to give each other guff about the Oliver case, seeing that we’re the Force  
and he’s the dark side.”

“Does that make me Luke Skywalker?” Ian asked with a laugh, thanking Mandy when she  
handed him a beer.

“Yup,” Horacio answered matter-of-factly, “and Mick’s Darth Vader.”

“Nah, that’s not gonna work out,” Mickey disagreed with a click of his tongue. “Although, you’ll  
see how ‘daddy’ I am inside the courtroom when I spank that ass.”

“Spank my ass?” Ian asked, throwing his head back with a sardonic laugh. “Nobody spanks my  
ass -in or out of the courtroom,” he said, stopping himself from reminding the brunet which one of  
them was doing the spanking in the guest house the night before. It was amazing how railing the  
guy’s asshole depleted the intimidation factor that had been so intense prior. His newfound  
confidence was short-lived, as the glare he received from the defense attorney instantly had his  
palms sweating. It was fun while it lasted.

“Back to your cages boys,” Mandy tsked. “Come on now. We’re going to have a fun day where  
we forget all about work.”

“Here, here,” Horacio agreed, holding up his drink for a toast. “To leaving port, not fucking  
around in court.”

“I’ll definitely drink to that,” Ian decided, glancing at Mickey who was regarding him with a  
raised eyebrow.

“Cheers,” Mandy said, clinking his bottle with her wine glass. She smiled at Andrew as he entered  
the cabin, “Let’s eat.”

Though the conversation during the meal was pleasant, Ian couldn’t help but notice how  
disinterested Mickey seemed. Not only did he avoid participating, he barely ate his meal, evidently  
deciding to drink his lunch instead. When he moved onto his third beer in thirty minutes, Ian  
couldn’t help but wonder if he had some sort of alcohol problem. It was hard to see the man  
who’d shown him so many moments of softness the night before behind the concrete walls he’d  
once again erected.

“I’m just saying, it’s really hard for a woman to find a good guy in New York City,” Lydia  
continued. “They’re all looking for the next best thing.”

“Which is crazy because there’s literally nobody better than you,” Mandy said, “and I’m not even  
blowing smoke up your ass, Lyd.”

“You think it’s easier for dudes?” Horacio questioned with a snort. “I promise you it’s not. There  
isn’t a more complicated creature than a Manhattan woman.”

“Maybe if you didn’t call us ‘creatures’ and you’d do better,” Lydia suggested with a grin.

“She has a point,” Andrew co-signed, patting Horacio on the back. “We need the man on man  
perspective and, lord knows, Mick’s doesn’t count,” he began, turning to Ian.

“Oh really? Why’s that?” he asked, partially entertained but mostly anxious.

“I mostly just fuck,” Mickey stated simply, earning wide eyes and giggles from Ian’s coworkers,  
minus the brash man’s sister, who kicked him hard under the table.

“I guess that answers the question,” Ian told Andrew, biting his lower lip thoughtfully. “Most guys  
just want to bang and run.”

“Is that right?” the defense attorney inquired with his eyebrows nearly raised to his hairline. “Bang  
and run?”

“Mmmhmm,” Ian confirmed with a nod.

“But not you?” he pressed. “You’d never do that shit?”

“I mean, not often.”

“Sometimes though?” Mickey offered. “I bet you’ve done it a few times.”

“Leave him alone,” Mandy ordered, giving her brother another kick. “Just because you don’t have  
a romantic bone in your body doesn’t mean all guys are like you.”

“The ones I date are,” Lydia chimed in. “Maybe we’re dating the same guys,” she said, smiling at  
Ian who forced a smile back.

The implication in Mickey’s words wasn’t lost on Ian, though it was unfathomable to even  
consider that the brunet had actually been impacted by his speedy, panicked exit after their hookup.  
Mandy had made it abundantly clear that her brother wasn’t the type to want anything more  
than a roll in a hay. He observed as Mickey stewed in silence for the remainder of the  
conversation and chose to go to the main deck of the boat while the rest of the party went to the  
sun platform above. It wasn’t until his bare skin was warm from the rays and his mind was calmed  
by the beer that Ian decided to climb down the stairs and join him.

“Are you always this antisocial?” Ian inquired standing in front of the lounge chair a visibly drunk  
Mickey was splayed out on.

“Are you always a fucking pansy-ass liar?” he grumbled back, lifting one eyelid. When Mickey  
licked his lips and muttered ‘fuck,” Ian became uncomfortably aware that he was still lacking the  
majority of his clothing, which he considered unnerving even though they’d spent time naked  
together. “You’re distracting.”

“In general or right now?”

“Probably both,” Mickey admitted, “but right now it’s annoying.”

“Why’s that?”

“Cause I’m trying to tell you what a bitch you are and I can’t stop looking at your v-cut. That’s  
fucked up.”

“I’m a bitch?” Ian asked

“Mmmhmm. Thought you would be and I was right, just in the wrong way.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Says who?” Mickey challenged, sitting up and resting his elbows on his bent knees. “You?” he  
scoffed, shaking his head. “You got me wrong, man.”

“Actually, I think I got you right,” Ian said with a tsk, urging his feet to walk away and  
admonishing them when they remained planted on the deck. His breath stuttered when Mickey  
scooted to the end of the seat and grasped his hips, letting his thumbs strum the indentations he’d  
referenced.

“Maybe I got you wrong then,” he decided, leaning in close so he could lick a lateral line just  
above the band of the redhead’s bathing suit. The wet heat of Mickey’s tongue had Ian’s knees  
wobbling and his head confused. “You say you want something real but you want what everyone  
wants -orgasms, and I want to give them to you.”

“Holy shit,” Ian mumbled, insanely turned on by the declaration. When the inebriated man began  
to yank his trunks down, the redhead reluctantly smacked his hand away. “Stop. You know we  
can’t do this. We shouldn’t have gone there...”

Mickey shook his head and let out a sarcastic laugh. “Here comes your saint shit, huh? The holier  
than thou, pseudo-ethical lawyer, who’s just looking to settle down.”

“You’re such an asshole.”

Mickey twisted to grab his lighter and cigarettes off the table beside his lounger and lit up. “At  
least I own it. What do you own?” he asked with the filter dangling from his lips. Closing his eyes,  
he laid down while dismissively waving Ian away.

Retreating, the embarrassed man felt that all he owned at the moment was a very confused brain.

Chapter Eighteen: 31 Flavors and Then Some

It had been two weeks since Mickey had the best fuck of his life and though he wished he could  
stop thinking about the man who gave it to him, he found that it was impossible. Somehow, the  
hypocritical piece of shit had wormed his way into his mind and there didn’t seem to be a way to  
dislodge him. The amount of frustration he felt towards the situation, and himself, was next level.  
As far as he saw it, there were two options; Either Ian was the fakest motherfucker he’d ever come  
across, making people believe he was out there looking for a man to treat him right, while he did  
them dirty or he was a complete mess of emotions who had no idea what he wanted. There was,  
of course, a third theory that Mickey was reluctant to explore because it seemed too unlikely to  
even consider. After all, his track record with guys disproved it time and time again, but that  
hadn’t stopped Ian’s affect was screwing him up enough to wonder if he was bad in bed. It went  
against everything he thought he’d ever known to contemplate the notion. The sky was blue, the  
Earth was round, and he was a bomb-ass bottom; those were indisputable truths, which made  
everything even more confusing.

“You ever liked someone you fucked?” he asked Joshua as the paralegal walked into his office on  
a sleepy Monday morning.

“Good day to you too, sir,” Josh replied, sitting down on a chair and regarding Mickey with a  
smirk. “What’s this about fucking?”

“Have you ever liked someone you fucked?” he repeated, crossing his arms over his chest. “More  
than just her body or whatever.”

“Are you asking me if I’ve felt human emotions?” Josh asked narrowing his eyes. “I’m flesh and  
blood, Mick, of course I have. Some of the women I cared about actually became my girlfriend  
and I went out of my way to be around them, tell them I loved them, even thought about the future  
because contrary to your fucked up perspective, there isn’t anything wrong with feeling shit.”

“Why aren’t you with any of them now then?” Mickey challenged. “Hm? If you cared so much,  
why aren’t you with them?”

“It isn’t that simple and you know it,” Joshua admonished. “I hear there’s something going  
around...”

“A rumor?”

“Nah, man. A sickness. I think you caught it.”

“What the fuck’re you talking about?” Mickey demanded, feeling his own forehead with the back  
of his hand. No fever. “What’d I catch?”

“Feelings,” Joshua answered with a grin. “You caught them feelings, player!” he crooned, holding  
his hands up to do a type of victory dance Mickey wished he hadn’t witnessed. “Ha, Ha! It  
happens to the best of us.”

“I didn’t catch shit,” Mickey stated, though he was beginning to think that maybe he had. “The  
guy just doesn’t make me wanna tell him to fuck off like other dudes have,” he decided, “It’s  
probably just cause the sex was awesome,” he thought aloud.

“So you’re sitting here thinking about that awesome sex, first thing Monday morning, unprompted  
by shit?”

Mickey shrugged.

“You horny?”

“What?”

“Are you horny right now?”

“Not really.”

“Then it doesn’t seem like it’s the sex that’s on your mind,” he reasoned with a wink. “Feel your  
feelings, man. You’re a big boy, you can handle it.”

“Why are we all even talking about this shit?” Mickey bristled, tossing a pen at Joshua’s head.

“Because you needed to talk to someone about it and I’m your someone.”

“You’re not my someone.”

“Is he?”

“Is who?”

“Awesome sex dude that you don’t have feelings for...” Joshua clarified. “Maybe he’s your  
someone. Have you asked him if he’s ever liked a person he’s fucked, preferably recently? I bet  
you’re curious about that answer.”

“I bet I’m not,” Mickey retorted, obstinance being his default setting.

“Just text him something like ‘the sex is great and so are you. Let’s not waste time. Be my boo.’”

“Leave.” Mickey pointed to the door, while Joshua cackled.

“I thought of that off the top of my head. I think I missed my calling.” He threw his arms up and  
yelled at the ceiling, “Hallmark where you at? Your boy’s got rhymes.”

“‘Your boy’s gotta roll the fuck out before he loses that head,” the lawyer cautioned, having had  
enough of Joshua’s shenanigans.

“Seriously though, how old are you now?”

“31.”

“Maybe it’s time to stop tasting all the flavors and pick your favorite. You don’t gotta go with  
vanilla. Commitment isn’t always boring.”

“Who said anything about commitment?” Mickey asked, gnawing on the inside of his cheek. It  
was an extreme leap from being interested to being monogamous, one that he was sure he wasn’t  
ready take, especially when the object of his potential affection was seemingly indifferent.  
Memories of the afternoon on the boat flashed through his mind, and he internally cringed at how  
forward he’d been, only to be rejected... again.

“Your eyes do when you talk about him,” Joshua stated simply.

“Fuck off.”

“Tell me about him.”

“No.”

“Why?

“Because there’s nothing to tell,” Mickey replied. And there wasn’t. “Give me the rundown on  
Oliver.”

“That was a brutal change of subject. I was just settling into some romance and all of a sudden  
you brought in the antithesis,” he cringed.

“Yeah, well, that prick’s paying the bills. Where are we with disgruntled former church members  
of Faith Redeemer who could’ve had a vendetta against Matthew? You told me about,” he looked  
down at his notes, “five.”

“Shaw, Kibbens, Diaz, Thirwell, and Lelans,” Joshua confirmed.

“All dead ends?”

The paralegal nodded. “And we can add Reynolds, Boyce, Jackson, Chamberlin, and O’Donnel  
to the ‘had-a-reason-but-didn’t-do-it’ list, too. I think we’re barking up the wrong tree with this  
one, big dog.”

“All we need is something to cast doubt. It doesn’t have to be firm,” Mickey said with a click of  
his tongue. “Tyler Parks was a saint, right? Everything we know about him proves that. We need  
a sinner.”

“We have one: Matthew Oliver.”

“Josh,” the lawyer warned, shaking his head. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Fine,” he sighed, “another sinner then.”

“Other than clergy, administration and school teachers, the only people who have access to the  
church after hours are janitors. Have you looked into the custodial team?”

“All I know about them is that the custodial needs are handled by a contracted company.”

“Why?”

“A lot of organizations contract out.”

“No, why haven’t you looked into the janitors,” Mickey clarified. “That’s what I’m asking.”

“I probably should have.”

“You think?” he asked, eyebrows raised in annoyance. “106 days until the biggest trial of both of  
our careers, J. We don’t have time to slack off.”

“I’m on it,” Joshua assured him, standing up to go to his office. “Expect a full report tomorrow.”  
“I will.”

“And I’ll expect the same.”

Mickey narrowed his eyes, wondering why the paralegal was giving him tasks.

“Cause you’re going to reach out to your guy, right?” Joshua inquired. “If he’s on your mind, let  
him know.”

“I don’t have a guy.”

“Yet, but you could.”

“You could go do your job,” Mickey retorted, waving the other man away.

Sitting alone in his office, he couldn’t help but ruminate on the conversation with Joshua and the  
fact that he didn’t have the visceral reaction to run when the concept of commitment was thrown  
around. He figured that alone was proof he shouldn’t rule out the possibility of actually trying to  
date Ian. Deciding he needed to take action, he picked up his office phone and dialed his sister’s  
number.

“You busy?” he asked, tapping his fingers gently on a stack of files on his desk.

“Well I’m at work,” Mandy replied shortly.

“Stop making copies for a minute and talk to me.”

“You’re such an asshole,” she sighed. “Hang on.” He heard rustling on the other end of the line,  
followed by a few moments of silence before she asked, “What’s up?”

“What did you tell Ian about me?”

“When?”

“Whenever.”

“Why?”

“Just answer the fucking question, alright?” he grunted, feeling uneasy about the inquiry to begin  
with.

“I don’t know, probably just to avoid you like the plague because you’re never going to want  
settle down. That you’re an aromantic player who goes through men like they’re tissues. So, the  
truth.”

“Did you tell him that shit because he seemed interested?” Mickey asked hopefully.

“I mean. I guess. I think he was asking about you. It was a while ago so I don’t remember exactly.  
Why?”

“Tell him you exaggerated.”

“But I didn’t,” Mandy replied matter-of-factly. “Every word I said was true.”

“Yeah well, find a way to tell him it wasn’t.”

“Why would I do that?” she asked skeptically.

“I think he’s blowing me off because of the shit you said,” Mickey told her, his voice softer than  
usual.

“Like turning you down when you try to fuck him?” Mandy questioned. “Did you ever think that  
maybe he just doesn’t want to mess around with you? You know, to start because it would be a  
massive conflict of interest. Remember I had to recuse myself because I’m your sister? Why  
would he want to potentially screw things up for himself by screwing you?”

“I’m not saying he would,” Mickey sighed, “but I want you to tell him that I’m not the way you  
said I was.”

“So you can have a chance to play him? No thanks, Mick.”

“Mandy, you’re my sister. Just tell him, okay? It doesn’t have to be a big deal.”

“I don’t know what you’re playing at. You’re that desperate to get him in bed or is this case  
related? Some sort of war tactic?”

“I have a strong case. I don’t need to come up with fucking war tactics. I’m going to win this one  
easy.”

“We’ll see about that. Ian is just as confident.”

“I’ll ignore the fact that you’re rooting against me.”

“I’m rooting against Matthew Oliver,” Mandy corrected, “so you by proxy I guess, but you didn’t  
have to take the case.”

“Yeah, I could always be a defense attorney that doesn’t defend people. You know what those  
guys are called?”

“Hmm?”

“Unemployed.”

“Which is what I’m going to be if I don’t get off the phone.”

“So you’ll tell him?”

“Will you leave me alone if I do?” Mandy asked impatiently.

“I’ll move onto the next thing I need to bother you about. I’m thinking either your cooking or your  
job.”

“I can’t wait.”

“Lots to look forward to.”

“You’re buying me dinner tonight.”

“Why and where?”

“Because you annoyed me today and I’ll text you later.”

“Fine,” Mickey relented, hanging up the phone.

After the shit Mandy had shared with Ian, it wasn’t a stretch to think that perhaps it had turned him  
off. Dropping a few good words was the least his sister could do, even if she didn’t realize they  
were true.

Chapter Nineteen: Rings and Things

To Ian, working the Oliver case had begun to feel like bashing his head into a brick wall  
repeatedly. After his theory about Matthew being Tyler’s father had been proven false, he’d tried  
different paths, all of which ended at the place where he’d started - a dead end. It wasn’t as though  
he hadn’t had difficult cases in the past or lost in the courtroom. He’d given plea deals that he  
hadn’t wanted to offer and regretted his approach. He’d tasted the bitterness of defeat and  
continued on to fight another day, but he didn’t want to do lose in the State v. Matthew Oliver.  
The personal connection he felt towards the case was his strongest to date and was most likely  
inhibiting his ability to think clearly. He had long since crossed over the threshold to biased and  
was now tucking himself in with prejudice. Even if Matthew was innocent, which he didn’t think  
he was, he wanted him to go down for the crime and the televangelist’s career to suffer the  
consequences of his blatant hypocrisy. Perhaps if the pastor was convicted of the crime, people  
would begin to question the validity of the bullshit he preached. Since Matthew was at the  
forefront in the war against LGBTQ people, and his downfall had the potential to harken a new  
age of enlightenment. The victory wouldn’t just be his but the community’s as a whole. It was  
hard for him not to strain under the weight he was putting on himself, when he felt like he was  
holding a group of marginalized people on his back. No matter how many vertebrae stretches and  
shoulder openers he’d been doing in yoga, he couldn’t find relief.

He spent days sitting in his office staring at the wall, his plant, a white board, videos of Detective  
Mavanelli’s interviews with key players, and Rachel when she came in to brainstorm with him.  
Though he remained optimistic that a breakthrough would happen, he couldn’t help but be  
disheartened by his struggles. He wanted the case to be a slam dunk and it seemed his shot at that  
was looking more and more like an airball. He knew that Mickey was going to come to court  
ready to play, and he needed to be more prepared than he was.

Research into his opposing counsel had elucidated why Matthew had hired him. As was common  
with defense attorneys, most of Mickey’s cases hadn’t gone to trial, however, unlike other  
litigators, he was victorious in every one of the heaping handful that had; statistics that were  
unsettling for Ian to say the least.

It was still difficult to fathom why Mickey would agree to work for Matthew and confusing why  
the bigot wanted an attorney who was gay to begin with. It was likely that the televangelist wasn’t  
privy to his lawyer’s sexuality, but that didn’t help Ian’s discomfort with the whole situation to  
wane. It made him sick to consider the irony, that it could be a gay man who got Matthew off; a  
fact he was sure the pastor wouldn’t appreciate if he found out. No matter how much he tried to  
understand, there was no explanation that made sense to him in regards to Mickey’s lack of  
values. He was working to save someone who hated him just for who he loved, for money. There  
was no amount in the world that would make it worth it for Ian.

Mickey and love; a man and a concept that didn’t seem to go together. Maybe that was why he  
was able to work for Matthew. Mickey had probably never been in love and didn’t believe he ever  
would be. There was nothing to defend but the defendant. It wasn’t as though Ian had ever been  
in love either, but at least he knew he had the capacity, something he assumed, from his  
conversations with Mandy, that Mickey lacked. If his friend hadn’t shared the information about  
her brother before he’d slept with him, Ian would have probably let himself go, allowed himself to  
get swept away in his sea blue eyes and lost in every inch between his strong thighs. Weeks had  
past since their rendezvous on July 4th and Ian still thought of the kisses under the deck, how  
incredible it had felt to be inside him, and how sad Mickey had seemed on the boat the day after.  
If he’d thought there was a chance for something real between them, and there wasn’t the Oliver  
case in the way, maybe he could fall in love with him one day, but nothing was ever that simple.

A soft knock on his door, pulled Ian from his reverie and back to reality where he was just as  
confused as he was in his daydreams. “Come in,” he called, smiling when he saw Mandy’s face  
peek around the door. “All clear,” he assured her.

“I think Rachel’s getting annoyed by my visits,” she said, sitting down and grinning at her friend,  
“but I can’t stay away.”

“She isn’t,” he promised. “She’s just really serious and we’re kind of frustrated.”

“Shit. Sorry.”

“Don’t tell your brother. I don’t want him to have the satisfaction.”

“I would never. I don’t want that either.” She smoothed our her black hair and shrugged her  
shoulder. “In all honestly, I don’t root for him often. He’s defended people worse than Matthew  
Oliver, which is mind blowing, I know.”

Ian nodded. He’d always thought Mandy was gorgeous but he found her even more beautiful after  
being with Mickey. They looked so similar and her brother was no doubt the most attractive man  
he’d laid eyes, or lips, on. “I get it. How are you doing? Any update on ring shopping?”

“Well,” she practically sang, giving the simple words more syllables than it possessed, “I think we  
found the one this weekend.”

“Did you?” Ian asked with a smirk. “Do you like it better than all the other ‘the ones’ you’ve been  
in love with?”

“I’m going to be wearing it for the rest of my life, Gallagher. I need to be absolutely obsessed with  
it.”

“So are you absolutely obsessed with this one?”

“Look at it,” she said holding her phone screen up so he could see a picture of the ring. “It’s a  
vintage. The diamond is asscher cut, which isn’t done as often anymore.”

“I don’t know anything about rings, but I can tell that things fucking huge. Are you worried you  
may break your wrist trying to hold it up?”

“Shut up,” Mandy laughed. “Anyway, I haven’t been skipping arm day just in case.”

“You should come to yoga with me. Side planks will really tone up your wrists,” he teased.

“Are you saying I have limp wrists?” she questioned, raising an eyebrow.

“I would never,” he chuckled, shaking his head.

“I can’t wait to make fun of how excited you get about wedding rings when you meet someone.”

“You’ll probably be doing it from a rocking chair in an old age home.”

“I’m going to be such a miserable old person. I can’t wait,” Mandy informed him with a wink.

“No prospects?”

“Not really.”

“Kind of, then?”

“I don’t know. It’s just not realistic.”

“But you’re interested?” she asked, surprised. “Why haven’t I heard about him? Spill the tea!”

“I mean, he’s interesting,” Ian began, choosing his words carefully, “and sexy as hell, but like I  
said, it won’t work out.”

“Well, I know somebody that will be happy to hear that.”

“Oh yeah? Who?”

“My brother.”

In a moment of panic, Ian thought Mandy knew what had gone down between them, but the  
confused look on her face eased his worry.

“I’m sorry I keep bringing him up to you. It’s just,” she paused, pursing her lips, “he keeps  
bringing you up to me.”

“He does?” Ian asked, feeling his heart thump hard in his chest at the information.

She nodded. “I really have no idea why. At first, I was convinced he just wanted to fuck and  
chuck you, but this is all out of the ordinary for him and it’s screwing with my head.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, he really wanted me to tell you that the shit I said about him wasn’t true. The aromantic  
stuff and inability to date or whatever, that I exaggerated.”

“Did you?” he inquired tentatively.

“Of course not, but maybe I was a little harsher than I needed to be. It guess it could be that he  
hasn’t met someone who he’s felt strongly for. If he did, I don’t think he’s completely incapable of  
being a good man. He’s really fucking loyal, so there’s that. If he ever does fall in love, he’d be a  
really loyal boyfriend.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Ian pressed, overwhelmed by the message Mandy didn’t know she  
was sending.

“Because he asked me to and I wasn’t going to hint around it,” she said matter-of-factly. “I can’t  
even pretend to know his motivations, but he wanted you to know that stuff so I told you.” She  
sighed. “He did tell me way back when that you’re really fucking cute, so maybe he has a crush  
on you, which is major, and I don’t blame him.”

“Maybe he’s just trying to get in my head for the trial,” Ian offered, unable to accept that perhaps  
the other man had genuine feelings for him.

“I wouldn’t rule it out,” Mandy replied with a nod, “but at the same time, he’s not one to give  
away even an iota of his pride, so that would probably be a stretch. I don’t know why he’d want  
you to know he was pining for you unless he was.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s all too goddamn  
confusing. You’re obviously adorable, but he’s acting downright vehement about it.”

“About him actually being able to have a relationship?” Ian clarified. “That’s what he wanted me  
to know?”

“Yup.”

“Weird,” he muttered. “Hey, can I see the ring again?”

“My future engagement ring?” she asked, her face lighting up exponentially. “Absolutely!” She  
handed him her phone and smiled as he studied it. Little did she know, he toggled to her texts and  
quickly memorized her brother’s phone number.

“It’s stunning,” he told her honestly as he clicked back to the picture.

“Thanks,” Mandy chirped, sliding her phone into her blazer’s pocket. “Back to drug cases I go!  
You’re taking me back after the Oliver case is donezo, right?”

“How’s that even a question?” he said with a warm grin.

She squeezed his hand before heading out of the room. As soon as she was gone, he typed  
Mickey’s number into his phone and with shaky fingers, composed a text.

Ian (10:46am): Hey. It’s Ian. I just wanted you to know that it’s the conflict more than it’s you.  
Maybe after I beat you we can hang out or something.

Mickey (10:52am): Pussy

Perhaps he was.

Chapter Twenty: That Good Sh*t

Mickey stared at his phone screen for an inordinately long time, watching Ian type and delete  
responses that he didn’t send. He figured there wasn’t much to say after his statement anyway, but  
he would’ve liked to see Ian try. After all, he’d been the one standing with his dick in his hand  
attempting to show the other man that he gave a shit and it was the redhead’s turn to expose  
himself. It was strange that Mandy had been so worried about Ian’s feelings when after their  
hookup it was Mickey who had been the one left reeling. He understood her trepidation, and  
couldn’t blame her, since admittedly, he wasn’t the commitment type. It had caused him immense  
shock when thoughts of Ian began to overtake his mind, and he was more surprised when they  
hadn’t diminished. While typically the prospect of one of his cases going to trial excited him, he  
was looking forward to Matthew Oliver’s being done. Even if things with Ian didn’t go anywhere,  
Mickey was sick of hearing the pastor’s name. Though news coverage had lessened over the past  
several weeks, he knew as the trial approached, it would pick up again. He was particularly  
dreading the ‘Who Are the Lawyers’ features the CourtTV personalities used as time-fillers. They  
were still months away from the start date and he’d already caught a piece on Ian. The narrative  
framed him as some LGBTQ super-lawyer ready to take down a homophobic villain, which  
irritated Mickey immensely, considering Ian’s orientation and Matthew’s views had nothing to do  
with the case.

The few times he’d had run-ins with Ian, the redhead had made it clear that he judged the hell out  
of him for defending Matthew, but the truth was, Mickey judged Ian’s inability to separate his  
career from his own beliefs. He was what every law professor warned against, someone who led  
with emotions rather than reason. In a way, he was glad that Mandy had to recuse herself from the  
case. His sister was new to the career and the last thing she needed was a mentor who worried  
more about the farce of morality than his own flood of bias.

When Mickey had started out, he’d thought there was some value to making a difference, but he’d  
quickly learned that there was only a value to money, which he earned more of the more he’d  
won. More often than not, the teenage offenders whose lives he’d believed he could change,  
proved to him that the pull of the streets was too powerful a foe for the weak-minded. He’d gotten  
out because he was hungry for it, desperate to escape his father, his borough, his life. It wasn’t as  
though the juveniles he’d represented hadn’t had terrible lives too, they just didn’t have the drive,  
or in some cases the intellectual capacity to change their circumstances. There was only so many  
missed opportunities and failed futures that Mickey could witness before he tuned out. Mandy  
often admonished him for being jaded, but he knew if she’d seen what he’d seen, she would be  
too. Maybe it was better that she hadn’t, that she could still get excited about seeking justice with  
idealists like Ian, who naively believed that eventually, good would prevail and evil would be  
punished. The truth was that the light and darkness were not so disparate and often heroes hid  
their degeneration in the cloak of night.. He wondered if Ian was able to fool himself into thinking  
that his law career would or did make him virtuous, or if he’d come to accept that the blood of a  
broken system stained his hands too.

Deciding that it was too unnerving to keep looking at Ian chickening out, he shoved his phone  
into his desk drawer and yelled “Joshua!”

Within seconds the paralegal was rushing into Mickey’s office, a panicked look on his face as he  
practically flew through the door. “What?” he asked, harried. “What?”

“Where are we on the custodial company?” he questioned, settling deeper into his overstuffed  
leather desk chair.

“Are you serious right now?” Joshua demanded. “I thought the building was on fire!”

“There’d be alarms and smoke, dumbass,” he scoffed. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“You just summoned me by screaming at the top of your black lungs,” he pointed out, narrowing  
his dark eyes at the lawyer, who appeared to be to be entirely unaffected by his frenzied affect.

“My lungs are black now? I don’t even cough.”

“You smoke like a chimney. There’s no doubt they’re burnt. Tarry and singed like your cold,  
dead heart.”

“Reason has no place here,” Mickey chided, rubbing his thumb against his bottom lip, “and  
neither does emotion. So? Tell me what’s up.”

“Can I get my file?” Joshua asked, exasperated. “You know, if you would’ve called me on the  
phone like a normal person I would’ve come in here prepared.”

Mickey sighed. “You talk too much. Hurry up.”

The paralegal made quick work of grabbing his materials before sitting down across from Mickey,  
still visibly aggravated. “I’m annoyed that I’m giving you good news when you deserve to suffer.”  
“I work with you,” he teased. “I suffer daily.”

“One of us suffers,” Joshua corrected, opening a manila folder and taking a paperclip off the top  
of a grouping of documents, “and I’m pretty sure it’s me.”

“You’re always talking about your Korean skincare, cum on the face shit, but all this scowling is  
gonna give you wrinkles.”

“First of all, black don’t crack. Second, one of the men in this room get splooge facials and that  
man ain’t me,” he said with pursed lips and a nod.

“Who said I’m into that shit? Hmm?” Mickey questioned, raising his eyebrows. “Just hoping and  
dreaming?”

“I just know you are because I’m not dense. You’re a freaky motherfucker. You’ve got slut  
written on your forehead,” he paused, unable to hold back the laughter he was desperately trying  
to contain, “in jizz.”

“Is that anything your skincare regimen can get rid of? I think it’s sending guys the wrong  
message,” Mickey retorted with a smirk, thinking there was a modicum of truth to his concern.

“You looking to become a reformed man, Mick?”

“Nah. I’m good. Tell me what you found out about the janitorial staff.”

“Okay, I have to say, it’s good news,” Joshua began. “There are four men contracted to Faith  
Redeemer. Three of them are clean and one, Salvatore Liando, has priors: a weapons charge and  
two counts of larceny.”

“No shit,” Mickey breathed, his lips pulling up into a smile. “Give me better news... that he was  
working on April 15th.”

“He was working the evening shift on April 15th,” the paralegal confirmed with a grin. “They  
schedule two janitors nightly from 9:00pm to 5:00am and one daily from 9:00am to 5:00pm.”

“Police reports have Parks murdered at approximately 7:15pm, a dead time for the custodial staff.”

“But,” Joshua held up his finger, “Saturday night services were cancelled on the 15th due to  
FREC’s annual retreat. On nights with no events or services, the church locks at 7:00pm, keyed  
access only. So only clergy, administration, teachers or the janitorial staff could access the church,  
unless there was a stowaway somewhere, which we’ll have a hard time proving.”

“So what are you thinking? That Liando went in early that night to gank Matthew’s gun? Parks  
caught him and bang bang?”

“He would’ve known where it was...” Joshua replied with a shrug. “He would’ve known the  
timing of the retreat and that they were back, but maybe he went to check it out anyway figuring  
everyone was pooped, saw the place was a ghost town and went for it.”

“Parks was shot in the teacher’s lounge.”

“Which is two doors down from Matthew’s office. Liando walks down the quiet hall admiring his  
new piece, Parks sees him and says ‘Hey, wait’ or some shit like that. End of story.”

“Hmm,” Mickey pondered. “Did the police question him?”

“They did. Liando was supposedly visiting his mother in the Bronx. The only person who can  
corroborate that story is Mom, who,” Josh shook his head, “did. I mean, it’s his mom.”

“Weak alibi. And the gun?”

“The only prints on the gun were Oliver’s, which is why the police looked at Liando as a dead  
trail.”

“Maybe he was wearing gloves. Simple. Oliver’s prints would have still been on the gun. He went  
in there to steal shit, he could’ve already been wearing gloves.”

“He’s the janitor though. His prints would’ve been all over Matthew’s office anyway. He  
wouldn’t have to worry about that.”

“But would they be on the shoebox or wherever the fuck the idiot kept his firearm?” Mickey  
questioned with his eyebrows raised. “I know it’s a stretch, but I’ve worked with less. I can cast  
doubt. All we need is a few skeptics on be jury to think ‘What if.’”

“I don’t know,” Joshua stated, scratching his head and clicking his tongue against his bright white  
teeth.

“Can you unequivocally say that Salvatore Liando couldn’t have gone to the church early,  
knowing there were no services that night, put on a pair of gloves, lifted the gun, got caught by  
Parks, shot Parks, dumped the gun, came back to work and went about his business like nothing  
happened until he called the police to report the body?”

“He didn’t discover the body. That was the other janitor on duty that night, Marcus Lockman.”

“Even better,” Mickey clapped. “He avoided the lounge because he didn’t want to be the one to  
make the call and garner suspicion.”

“It’s something,” Joshua agreed with a nod. “He would’ve known exactly where the gun was,  
could’ve grabbed it quickly, panicked when Tyler saw him. Done deal.”

“Thank you, Salvatore Liando,” Mickey said to the ceiling above him. “You ain’t dead, but  
you’re gonna allow me to fucking kill it. I’m about to keep my streak, J.” He slapped Josh’s hand  
and smiled.

“My man,” he replied, beaming back at him.

“Get me the police tape of their interview with Liando and all the information you can find on  
him. I want to know what the asshole ate for breakfast in elementary school, who he was banging  
senior year, how often he takes a shit, how often his dog takes a shit, how often his mom takes a  
shit, how often his mailman takes a shit.”

“So you want to know all the shit,” Joshua laughed.

“All of it,” Mickey confirmed, “because that shit is going to get our client out of the massive  
amount of shit he’s in.”

“What do I say now? You’re onto shit? You’re about that shit? I see that shit-eating grin?”

“You could just tell me that I’m the shit,” the lawyer replied with a cocky nod.

“You already know,” Joshua said slapping his hand again.

He did.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Twenty-One: City of Brotherly Love

Ian disembarked the SEPTA regional rail train in Bryn Mawr, his nostrils instantly inundated with  
cool, firewood-kissed air. Inhaling deeply, he reflected on how beautiful Philadelphia’s Main Line  
was in the fall. In an alternate universe where he hadn’t been enticed by the bright lights of New  
York City, and the esteem of the District Attorney’s office, he could have seen himself staying in  
Pennsylvania after law school and living in the high-end suburb where his brother Jacob, wife  
Lily, and their kids Reese and Luke resided. Sunday nights would be spent at their oversized,  
whittled wood, Amish-made table, eating the Southern food his sister-in-law so deftly made and  
listening to his niece and nephew sing the songs that they’d learned in their church daycare.  
Maybe he would have met a man, fallen madly in love, and married him in front of his family and  
college friends who he wouldn’t have lost touch with. His husband would urge him to slow down  
and stop climbing the ladder and he would listen because he wanted to be more available. He’d  
take a cush job at a family law firm and work from 9:00am-5:00pm everyday, making sure to  
always be on time when picking their son or daughter up from daycare. He’d have someone to  
talk to, care for, grow old with and he wouldn’t care that he never became a DA.  
Two short beeps from a white Lexus SUV prompted him to wave his hand at his brother, who  
smiled in return and leaned over to open the passenger door.

“Hey, hey, hey. How’s it going?” Jacob asked, twisting to give him a hug. “How was the train  
ride?”

“Congested,” Ian replied, opening the window as Jacob pulled out of the parking lot. “Everything  
feels more fresh here.”

“Maybe you should finally make the move,” the younger Gallagher suggested with a wink. “I  
know Lily and the kids would be over the moon.”

“But not you?” Ian laughed.

“Of course not,” he teased. “You know I can’t stand you.” He squeezed Ian’s knee before placing  
his hand back on the steering well. “What the haps?”

“What the what?”

“Haps,” Jacob repeated. “Like what’s happening. All the interns say it. It’s the new lingo.”

“What are you 27 going on 64? Trying to pick up the ‘lingo.’ Don’t,” he said, shaking his head  
with amusement. “It’s bad.”

“You’re just not cool.”

“So I hear.”

“What’s new? Is that better?”

“Much,” Ian confirmed. “I don’t know. It feels like nothing’s new, but everything kind of is.”

“I’m intrigued,” Jacob said, turning down his picturesque, tree-lined street, “but it looks like we’ll  
have to talk about it after dinner because the welcoming crew is in full effect.”

“That they are,” Ian grinned, watching as his niece and nephew excitedly jumped up and down on  
their driveway holding homemade signs with his name emblazoned on them and decorated with  
glitter.

“Uncle Ian!” Reese exclaimed, dropping the poster board as he exited the car so she could drop  
into his arms.

“Reese’s pieces!” he crooned, squeezing her tight. “I missed you.”

“I missed you more,” she said, taking the snapback off his head to place it on her own. Her red  
curls stuck out like Bozo the Clown as she gave him a mischievous smile.

“It’s looks better on you anyway,” Ian decided, putting her down so he could scoop up her little  
brother. “And how are you Lukey baby?”

“I’m not a baby,” the three-year-old informed him matter-of-factly. “I’m a kid.”

“Is that so?” he asked, grinning at Lily who rolled her hazel eyes dramatically at her spunky son.

“Mmm. I make poop on the potty and everything.”

“Lucas Alexander Gallagher, we do not talk about bathroom subjects outside of the bathroom,”  
Lily chided, her sweet southern drawl making the words sound less pointed than she intended.  
She wrapped Ian in a hug as he continued to hold her son. “Hey babe, glad you made it. We’ve  
been missing you.”

“I’ve missed you guys, too. Things have been crazy. I can’t wait to hear more about it over  
Shrimp and Grits.”

“We all know that Lily’s cooking is the real reason you show,” Jacob taunted, taking Luke from  
Ian’s arms to allow him to pick up Reese who had adhered herself to his leg.

“It doesn’t hurt,” Ian said, smirking at the former beauty queen.

“I helped mama make banana pudding cupcakes,” Reese told her uncle, proudly. “I stirred the  
batter and everything.”

“You did?” he asked, blowing a raspberry on her cheek. “When did you become a chef? You take  
after your mother.”

“And I am so thankful for that,” Jacob chimed in, opening the front door to the house. “If she had  
my cooking skills she’d never hook herself a man,” he mused, earning a very displeased look from  
his surprisingly liberal wife, and most definitely forward-thinking wife. “Whomever she chooses  
to hook.”

“You have him well-trained,” Ian told Lily as she tied her cascade of impeccably highlighted  
waves into a hairband.

“Clayton and Lucy left me with a lot of molding to do,” she tsked.

“Hey now!” Jacob protested, as he got the kids settled at the table.

“He said ‘what the haps’ when I got in the car today,” Ian groaned, washing his hands. “Is that a  
thing?”

“He’s desperately trying to make it a thing,” she sighed.

“I’m right here!” Jacob reminded them. “Literally a few feet away.”

“I have two feet, ten toes and a penis,” Luke told them as he adjusted to his booster chair.

“Lucas!” his parents cry while Ian laughed and got a smack upside the head from Lily.

As usual, Lily’s cooking, and the company, made Ian wonder why he lived two hours away. It  
was nice to slow down and reconnect with people who loved him for who he was at his core, not  
what he worked to prove. When the plates were cleared and the kids were in the den fighting over  
the remote control, Joshua reminded Ian, “You were speaking in codes in the car. What the haps?”

“He didn’t,” Ian laughed, gawking at Lily.

“Unfortunately, he sure did,” she sighed. “What’s going on, honey?” She asked, resting her hand  
on Ian’s. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, I mean...” he paused. “I can’t go into many details but the Televangelist murder case is  
kicking my ass.” He took a sip of his beer. “We go to trial November 14, so less than a month and  
I don’t have anything.”

“Nothing?” Jacob asked, shocked by the admission.

“A few things, but nothing more than I had when I first got the case,” he clarified, rubbing his  
forehead. “This is going to be a bloodbath for me.”

“Wow,” his brother said with a grimace.

“Maybe y’all will find something useful soon! There has to be something,” Lily chirped with her  
signature optimism. “I have faith that good will always prevail and you’re good, baby. I know it  
will work out.”

“Thanks, Lil. I’m not so sure about it, but a little faith never hurt.”

“You know we don’t have a shortage of that in this household,” Jacob assured him.

“Thanks,” Ian said with a nod.

“I’m sensing this isn’t just about work,” Lily stated, studying Ian’s affect. “Spill the beans.”

“There’s nothing really to spill...” he began tentatively, unsure if he could muster the ability to  
share what else had been wearing on him for months. “It’s just, I don’t know, I’m tired of not  
having someone.”

“Is there a someone you want to have?” She pressed, sharing a look with her husband. “Or is this  
general?”

“I mean. I guess both,” he admitted, clearing his throat. “There’s this guy...”

“I love how this starting,” Lily practically squealed.

“I wouldn’t get too excited,” Ian warned. “It’s kinda just,” he searched for a word, only able to  
come up with, “sucky.”

“How so?” his brother asked. “Is he a crappy guy or something? Not good to you?”

“No,” Ian replied, shaking his vehemently. “It’s more the situation. He’s Matthew Oliver’s  
defense attorney.”

The reactions he received couldn’t have been more different. While his brother was staring at him  
with shock and awe, Lily cupped her hands over her mouth attempting to hide her smile.

“This is a romance novel!” she cried with a giggle.

“Tell me you didn’t...” Jacob pleaded.

“I did.”

“Ian!” he moaned. “Come on.”

“It only happened once, like, a little over three months ago. I texted him a few weeks later, but  
nothing since then,” Ian explained. “I’ve been trying to put it behind me so I can focus on the case  
and not mess it all up with a conflict.”

“And somebody found out? Are they threatening to expose you?” Jacob asked anxiously, trying  
to draw in deep breaths.

“No,” Ian assured him. “It’s nothing like that.”

“Then what’s the problem?” his brother inquired, clearly confused why something over and done  
with would be a source of stress for Ian.

“I can’t stop thinking about him.”

“Oh my goodness!” Lily trilled. “If this isn’t just the cutest thing!”

“It’s unethical,” Jacob corrected. “It can’t be cute because it’s wrong.”

“You’re too dogmatic. I think you’re cute and you’re wrong, like, the majority of the time,” she  
stated. “What’s holding you back, Ian.”

“The ethics thing.”

“Are you going to talk with this man about the case itself?” She asked.

He shook his head. “No, I’m sick of hearing about it, discuss it, existing in it. I want to forget  
about it for a while.”

“By hanging out with someone who is, no doubt, just as consumed as you?” Jacob inquired.  
“That sounds counterproductive.”

“We really didn’t talk much,” Ian said, causing his brother to shake his head.

“Even worse. Sex isn’t worth your career.”

“Who says that’s the trade off?” Lily wondered. “Nobody knows what goes on in anybody else’s  
bedroom. As long as they don’t flaunt it, who would suspect it? The trial’s going to be a few  
months long, and it’s already been a chunk of time since he saw him. What if he moves on and  
baby misses his chance?”

The thought was alarming to Ian. While he knew Mickey was sought after, based on the  
perception he had of him, he never considered he could enter into a relationship and stay  
committed, but Mandy had told him herself several weeks ago that Mickey had the capacity to  
settle down if he wanted to.

“Then it wasn’t mean to be,” Jacob stated, simply, but Ian knew better than that.

After months of having the other man linger in the back of his mind, Ian found the idea that he  
could move on so easily absolutely ludicrous.

“You need to go for it,” Lily decided. “When everything is over and done with, you’ll thank your  
lucky stars, AKA me, for the fact that you have something so amazing.”

“And what about the conflict?” Jacob asked. “Hmm? Are you going to pretend that it’s not a big  
deal?”

Lily shook her head. “I’m not going to pretend it’s not a big deal, but if I was Ian, I wouldn’t want  
to miss out on someone special because of a few rules.”

“I always took you as a rule follower,” Jacob told his wife. “Since when don’t you follow the  
rules?”

“Since I realized I don’t always have to. Sometimes the constraints inhibit what makes is human!  
Don’t you want to life your life? Not look back wondering ‘what if?’”

“Reasonable doubt,” Ian muttered.

“It he worth it?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Ian spent the rest of the visit thinking about the question and while on the train back to his life, he  
was struck with the answer. Yes. Without delay he pulled out his phone and opened the screen of  
a number he’d stared at for hours, for days, for weeks, but was full of too much trepidation to  
make a move. Until then.

Ian (9:27pm): I don’t want to be a pussy.  
Mickey (9:29pm): It’s too bad you are then.  
Ian (9:29pm): Let me prove I’m not.  
Mickey (9:31pm): A chunk of months later? You go through puberty or some shit?  
Ian (9:33pm): When can I see you?  
Mickey (9:34pm): In your dreams.  
Ian (9:35pm): I do. Every night.  
Mickey (9:37pm): Must be sick of my face then.  
Ian (9:38pm): I wish.  
Mickey (9:40pm): I don’t know how to respond to that.  
Ian (9:43pm): I’m on an Amtrak on my way back from Philly. We’re about one hour from the  
City. Tell me to come over.  
Mickey (9:46pm): What If I don’t?  
Ian (9:47pm): I’ll ask again tomorrow and probably the next day.  
Mickey (9:49pm): that’ll be annoying  
Ian (9:51pm): Probably  
Mickey (9:54pm): One Eleven Murray Street. Apartment 7B.  
Ian (9:55pm): I can’t wait.

He’d waited long enough.

Chapter Twenty-Two: Something More This Time

It was hard for Mickey to believe that after months of hoping something would happen again  
between him and Ian, it finally was. As much as he wanted Ian to fuck him, and he really wanted  
that, his priority was getting the shit off his chest that had been pressing down on it for far too  
long. The way he saw it, he had one chance to make the skittish man realize that he could be good  
to him, if he’d let him.

A knock on the door prompted him to take a deep breath, steeling himself for the challenge that  
doing something he’d never done before posed; preparing to admit that he gave a shit, while  
hoping that Ian did too.

“Hey,” Ian greeted, his eyes instantly falling to Mickey’s lips as he stood awkwardly in the  
hallway, holding a plate of cupcakes. “Thanks for letting me come over.”

“It’s been a while,” he said, waving a visibly tentative Ian into his apartment. “You look less  
ethical than I remember.” As he closed the door, he felt a hand rest on the small of his back.

“Don’t say that,” the redhead urged quietly. “This is tough enough without your bullshit added on  
top of it.”

“Nobody asked you to be here, man,” he reminded him, tilting his head and then shaking it when  
Ian leaned in for a kiss. He turned away and took a sip of the beer that was in his hand. “What the  
fuck are those?”

“Banana pudding cupcakes,” Ian answered, thrusting the plate into Mickey’s hands.

“They sound gross,” he stated, examining the contents of the plate skeptically.

“They’re pretty good. My sister-in-law made them. She’s much more talented in the kitchen than I  
could ever be. My niece Reese helped, but Lily always makes sure she washes her hands really  
well.”

“Cool,” Mickey said, narrowing his eyes. It was obvious the other man was nervous, so he  
decided to offer a way to assuage his anxiety. “Want a drink?”

Ian nodded, following him into his sleek white and steel kitchen. Placing the cupcake plate on the  
snowy agate countertop, Mickey gave them one last confused glance before pulling open the  
refrigerator.

“Your place is nice.”

“Yeah, murderers, rapists, and a few innocent motherfuckers bought it for me,” he replied, using a  
bottle opener to pop the top on a Corona before handing it to Ian. “I know it’s not summer, but I  
like to drink it. Reminds me of being on the beaches in Mexico.”

“I’ve never been.”

“You should go. It’s great. I got a little shithole in Puerto Peñasco. I head out there as much as I  
can in the winter,” Mickey said, leading Ian to the grey leather couch in the open concept great  
room and sitting just far enough away from him to drive him crazy. “When it’s fucking nasty here,  
I lie on the warm sand drinking Tecate and tequila, not giving a shit about anything.”

“That sounds amazing. I don’t travel enough...” he began, crinkling up his nose, “or, you know, at  
all.”

“It is, but I probably won’t make it out there until after the new year, if that, because some  
dumbass ADA forced a trial after he offered my client an awful plea.”

“It sounds like he’s smart and has a strong case,” Ian retorted, drumming his fingers against his  
knee.

“Nah.” Mickey shook his head. “It’s mostly that he’s an idiot with a boatload of bias.”

“Fuck you,” he groaned, rolling his eyes.

“Isn’t that what you came over here to do? Fuck me?”

“Not just that.” Ian cracked a smile when he saw Mickey’s eyebrows lift dubiously. “Partially,” he  
admitted, “but this means something to me. It has to. To do this, it has to mean something. I can’t  
just, you know, hook up with you.”

“Could’ve fooled me after the Fourth of July,” the brunet retorted, peeling the damp label off his  
bottle. “You peaced out pretty fucking quick.”

“I didn’t think you’d care.”

“Didn’t say I did,” he replied, defensively. “I’m just pointing out another instance of you being a  
hypocrite.”

“You wanted me to know that it wasn’t always ‘hit it and quit it’ with you. You had Mandy relay  
that message and now you’re telling me you didn’t care? Who’s the hypocrite?”

“Still you,” Mickey answered with a grin, noticing the flicker of amusement in Ian’s green eyes.  
He couldn’t help but admire their unusual shape, the perfect slope of his nose and the shadow of a  
ginger stubble on his freckled skin. “You’re a lot of things..”

“Oh yeah? What am I?”

“Annoying, stubborn, sexy,” he confessed, licking his lips thoughtfully, “someone who makes me  
want more than one night with them.”

“Why?” Ian asked, his cheeks tinging pink. “Was Mandy wrong about you? Do you just not tell  
her shit?”

He shook his head. “She wasn’t wrong. This is,” he paused, searching for the best way to describe  
his disposition, “different.”

“How?”

“You ask too many questions,” Mickey chided. “What does it matter anyway? You’re here, I’m  
here. What more needs to be said about it?”

“Will you be here tomorrow, or the next day?”

“It makes more sense for me to ask you that question. Are gonna run?” he asked, feeling his heart  
jump and pound with anger at how vulnerable he was forcing it to be. “Or are you going to stick  
around?”

“I thought you’d want me to leave.”

“Based in the fact that I asked you to stay or...” Mickey inquired, nudging his knuckle against his  
nose, “you know, some other bullshit you concocted in that goofy, red head of yours?”

“You didn’t really ask me to stay.”

“I really did,” he assured Ian, who was staring down at the blanched wood floor. “C’mere.”

Placing his beer bottle on the ground, he settled back into the couch and adjusted his jeans. When  
the other man moved closer, yet still keeping a slight distance, Mickey looped an arm around his  
waist and pulled him into his lap. “Up here,” he corrected, holding onto Ian’s sides as the redhead  
leaned down to slot their mouths together.

“Been thinking about this,” Ian whispered against Mickey’s lips, “about you.”

“What did you do to me?” he asked, placing his hands on Ian’s fiery cheeks and gazing into his  
blown out pupils. “You said you were going to ruin me and I think you did.”

Ian hid his face in his hands and laughed hysterically at the reminder of his inebriated declaration.  
“I was wasted when I said that. I say dumb shit when I’m drunk.”

“Maybe just true shit,” Mickey offered with a chuckle, “because it was fucking true.” He tugged  
Ian’s wrists down so he could see his crimson skin and shy smile. “You make me want something  
real, want this to be real, make us real, I guess.” He studied the man on his lap, attempting to read  
his expression and asking “what?” when he couldn’t.

“You’re sweet,” Ian said, as if he was hardly able to believe the statement was true.

“I’m honest,” Mickey corrected with a click of his tongue, “about this,” he added, “Can’t promise  
the same about work shit.” He raked his fingers through Ian’s hair, leaning his head back and  
sighing as the other man began to kiss his neck. Instinctively, he grasped a section of red locks in  
his hand and bit his lower lip as a warm tongue dragged over his sensitive skin.

“We probably shouldn’t talk about the case,” Ian told him between gentle sucks and bites. “Things  
will get complicated.”

“C’mon,” Mickey laughed. “You gotta at least let me give you shit, it’s too good not to.”  
Ian shook his head and sat up straight, looking at Mickey with a smirk. “Why would I ever be like  
‘sure, that sounds like fun’ to that?”

“Because I think it’s fucking cute when you get flustered? Other than the obvious, I think that’s  
what got me hooked, your face when I tease you.”

“That was teasing?” Ian asked skeptically. “It didn’t seem like teasing at the plea bargain meeting,  
or before it.”

“Well, fine,” he relented, grinning at Ian, who was clearly entertained by the conversation, “that  
wasn’t really teasing.”

“That was you having a bitch-fit.”

“I thought we weren’t talking about the case,” Mickey reminded him. “You're already breaking  
your own stupid rules and it wasn’t a bitch-fit, it was a display of frustration because you were  
being some justice vigilante.”

Ian held up his middle finger and Mickey away when he tried to bite it. “Everything about the  
case is frustrating.”

“That’s because you take shit too seriously.”

“It’s serious business. Someone’s dead, someone has to pay for that.”

“And that person is Matthew Oliver?” Mickey asked, tsking when Ian climbed off his lap and  
picked up his beer bottle to take a swig.

“Do you have someone else?”

“Do you have Matthew?”

They stared at each other, both knowing better than to answer the questions.

“There’s so much violence in this world that people aren’t even effected by an isolated murder  
anymore. The only thing that impacts them is mass casualties and even then, they’re over it in a  
few weeks, moved on, back to their lives, no longer worrying about the people who lost theirs.  
Tyler Parks’ life wouldn’t have even a blip on the radar if it wasn’t for Oliver’s fame,” Ian stated,  
gnawing on the inside of his cheek. “Fame that he got spewing hate at people like us, fanning the  
flames of discrimination and bigotry. Whether it’s with his hands or his mouth, Matthew  
propagates violence. When he gets off,” he paused, correcting himself when he noticed the look  
on Mickey’s face, “if he gets off, everyone forgets about Tyler Parks. He’s gone and all that  
remains is Matthew and his army of assholes.”

“If it wasn’t him it would be somebody else, Ian. There’s tons of armies of assholes out there.  
When one man disappears, three more take his place. You’re not going to fight all the hate in the  
world, and you’re certainly not going to fight it going through Oliver, the fucking dumbass.”

“I’m a dumbass?” Ian questioned, raising his eyebrows.

“Well, yeah, but I was talking about him.”

“That’s your client.”

“Exactly. My client. He’s not my brother, lover, friend, or foe and when the trial’s over he won’t  
even be that. He’s nothing to me like he should be nothing to you and everybody else. The only  
way people like him continue to gain power is through controversy. Motherfuckers like you, who  
get heated over the stupid shit he says. You have to learn to separate things better.”

“Says the guy who wants to start something romantic with opposing counsel.”

“I’m more than my career,” Mickey stated, plainly. “Aren’t you?”

Shrugging, Ian chugged the remainder of his beer. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” the brunet questioned, hating the sadness he saw settle in the other man’s  
eyes. “How do you not know?”

“I’ve spent so many years focusing on my job and putting it above everything, everyone. It’s been  
my life.”

“Mandy told me you wanted more than that, that you wanted a dog or some shit,” Mickey said,  
taking the bottle out of Ian’s hand and tossing it onto the floor.

“I don’t think I ever told her I wanted a dog,” he laughed, resting his hands on Mickey’s cheeks  
and rubbing his thumbs over his jawline. “I don’t think I’d have enough time for a dog. It  
wouldn’t be fair, you know, that I’m not around that much. It would mostly just be sitting in my  
apartment all day, which isn’t as a big as yours is, it’s kind of a closet in comparison.”

“That’s not,” Mickey began shaking his head, “I’m not really talking about a dog. I’m just talking  
about how you wanted something more than what you’ve had before.” He felt his lungs constrict  
as he prepared to utter the admission that had been on the tip of his tongue for months. “I want to  
be more to you.”

The words were barely out of his mouth before Ian was on his lips, showing Mickey that he  
already was.

Chapter Twenty-Three: Lord Knows

Ian couldn’t remember the last time he’d woken up with a man molded so perfectly to him. Every  
inch of him that could be touching Mickey was. From the tips of his toes tucked under his lover’s  
shin, to the way the dips of his shoulders cradled his chin, it was impossible to get close enough,  
and yet, they both continued to try. Grabbing and grasping on to the other while deep in their  
slumber, bodies drawn together like they were made of magnets, no longer plagued by the scars  
and flaws of their flesh

It was criminal how much flirting and fucking they’d done over the last seven hours. After three  
months spent salivating at the thought of one another, they ended starvation with a feast of body  
adoration, bottomless pits of need. The sex was transcendent. Whether they were power-fucking  
or taking it slow enough that their lips wouldn’t disconnected from the motion, it was what  
fantasies were conceived of. Reflecting on his cocky promise from July 4th, Ian was now  
convinced that they’d ruined each other, both left wrecked from the relief and a seemingly  
ceaseless fountain of cum.

It was wild to think that he’d ever considered Mickey the enemy; a man who felt and tasted as  
delicious as he looked and courageously said the things that Ian had lingering in his mind. He  
knew that as soon as he stepped foot out of Mickey’s apartment, they were adversaries again,  
intent on winning the case that had brought them together and if they weren’t careful, would tear  
them apart. The connection they shared, no matter how intense, wouldn’t influence either of them  
to go easier in the courtroom, well-aware of ramifications of such a high-profile loss. Still, the  
thought of their very new and incredibly unexpected relationship becoming a causality of their  
circumstances was unsavory to say the least. It wasn’t as though they’d opened themselves to the  
possibility of something long term often, or at all, so trying to make it work was worth a shot, even  
if the situation was complicated. There was no guarantee that they wouldn’t find themselves  
facing off in the future, or if their relationship went public, needing to recuse themselves from a  
case which the other had already committed to. It wasn’t ideal, and there would be sacrifices that  
Ian wasn’t sure he or Mickey would be willing to make, but in the quiet of Monday morning’s  
dawn he forced himself not to think of anything but the scent of his lover’s skin and the blue eyes  
he found himself constantly getting lost in.

“Morning,” he said as Mickey stretched out with a groan and turned over so his forehead was  
resting against Ian’s.

A lion yawn had hot air blowing on the redhead’s face and the sleepy man muttered a “sorry”  
before closing his eyes again.

“I have to go,” Ian whispered, smiling when Mickey pursed his lips looking for a kiss. “Fuck.”

“Hmm?” he hummed, his eyelids fluttering open to the sight of Ian titling his head to lay a tender  
smooch on his mouth.

“I have to go and you’re killing me.” He slid his fingers through Mickey’s hair, settling his palms  
on the crown of his head, guiding him towards his lips again.

“I didn’t do shit,” Mickey stated with another yawn. “I’m just lying here, minding my own  
business.”

“You look so soft,” Ian told him, trailing his hands down the brunet’s face and allowing them to  
travel down his torso. “You’re usually so hard, but like this, your soft and it’s killing me.”

“You liked me hard last night,” he said, smirking. “Liked it so much, you kept me that way.” He  
scooted impossibly closer to Ian’s naked body, letting the evidence that he wasn’t soft at all poke  
against his lover’s groin.

“You know what I mean,” he chided without venom. “I want to fuck you but I have to go to my  
place and get ready for work.”

“Be late,” Mickey urged, wrapping his hand around Ian’s shaft and biting his lip. “Isn’t going to  
take me long.”

“I’m already going to be late and I have a few important meetings this morning,” Ian sighed,  
peeling himself away before he lost his resolve. Standing up, he gazed down at Mickey and shook  
his head at how tempting he looked sprawled out in his king size bed.

“Meetings, huh?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. “Anything you want to tell me about?”

“Fuck off,” Ian laughed. “I think you’re seducing me so I’ll fuck up the case by thinking about  
you instead of the motive. You’ll entice me to miss meetings...”

“Thinking about the motive,” Mickey repeated with a nod. “Very interesting.”

“See you got into my head.”

“You know, I hear there are some good medications for paranoia,” he replied, propping himself  
up on an elbow so he could watch Ian get dressed. “Or I could just go to the kitchen and make  
you a tinfoil hat. Up to you.”

“How about you go to the kitchen and make me breakfast instead?” Ian suggested, grinning when  
Mickey gave him the finger.

“Nah, take your banana bullshit and fuck off.”

Leaning down, Ian pressed a kiss against Mickey’s full lips. “When can I see you again?” he  
questioned, sliding his wallet and phone into the back pocket of his jeans.

“I don’t know. Tonight?”

“Really?” Ian asked surprised.

Mickey scrunched his eyebrows down skeptically. “Do you want to get laid?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“Pretty much all time,” Ian replied, honestly.

“Right. So I’ll see you tonight.”

“I may need to work late. How late is too late to come over?”

“You ask too many questions,” Mickey moaned pulling the pillow over his face. “Use your  
fucking phone man,” his muffled voice demanded. He laughed when Ian yanked it away and  
kissed him hard.

“I’ll see you later.”

Mickey waved. “Don’t forget your cupcakes, cupcake.”

“Is that a pet name?” Ian crooned, dramatically grabbing his heart.

“More like a fuck you,” he teased, tucking himself back under the comforter.

“Well fuck you, too. I’m going to take them and give them to your sister and everyone else who’s  
nice to me.” He walked into the kitchen and picked up the plate, deciding to leave one of the  
cupcakes sitting on a paper towel for Mickey, because he was pretty nice to him the night before.  
Any other day, Ian would have been annoyed that he didn’t have time to hit the gym or take a  
long shower, but nothing was able to faze him after the evening he’d spent with Mickey. He  
walked into the office with an extra pep in his step and cupcakes in his hand, ready to tackle his  
interview with Sara and Simon Oliver.

“Good morning, Rach,” he said, buoyantly approaching her desk. “Cupcake?”

“No thanks,” she replied. “You’re awfully chipper. Did you have fun in Philly yesterday?”

“I did,” he confirmed. “It was nice to take a break.”

“Good. Mother and son Oliver are here. Do you want me to put those somewhere so you can  
settle in?”

He nodded. “If you could give them to Mandy, that would be great. I just have to open my file  
and I’m ready to roll. Go ahead and bring them in on your way back.”

“You got it,” Rachel said with a nod, hurrying down the hall.

It wasn’t long before she was knocking on Ian’s office door and announcing Sara and Simon  
Oliver.

“Mrs. Oliver, Mr. Oliver, it’s nice to see you again,” Ian greeted, standing up to shake their hands.  
“I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me.”

“In all fairness, Mr. Gallagher, we felt we didn’t have much of a choice,” Sara replied, tersely.

“There is much we would prefer to be doing.”

“I’m sure,” he nodded, gesturing for the Olivers and Rachel to take their seats. “You did, in fact,  
have a choice and I appreciate you making this one. I’ll do my best to make this as expeditious as  
possible. I must begin by reminding you that you’ll be sitting as defense witnesses for the  
upcoming trial of the State v. Matthew Oliver. You have the right to counsel, but you’ve chosen  
not to have a lawyer present for this meeting, correct?”

“Matthew’s lawyer is too busy making sure that my husband isn’t found guilty of a crime he  
didn’t commit to show up here for your little interview,” Sara told him, the malice clear in her  
voice.

Ian had to stop himself from laughing, knowing the pastor's attorney was most likely still in bed,  
covered in his cum. He glanced at Simon, who was sitting quietly, looking down at the carpet.

“Would you like to go forward without the presence of an attorney, Mr. Oliver?” he asked,  
drawing a nod, but not eye contact, from the noiseless man. “Great. Let’s get started. The  
questions I’ll be asking you today will focus on the night of April 15 and the details of your  
whereabouts as you remember them.” The sat in a heavy silence for a moment before Ian forged  
on. “Ms. Oliver, you told the police that you did not attend First Redeemer’s annual retreat  
because you were under the weather, yes?”

“That’s correct,” she answered. “I had been diagnosed with acute bronchitis on Thursday  
afternoon.”

“Thursday April 13,” Ian confirmed, glancing towards Rachel to make sure she was taking notes,  
even though they’d heard the same information hundreds of times on the police tapes.

“I was sad to miss it, but it just wasn’t practical to go in the condition I was in. It was the first  
retreat I’ve missed since Matthew founded the church.”

“And did Matthew consider staying home with you?”

She narrowed her eyes and scoffed as if the question was ludicrous. “Absolutely not. Under no  
circumstances would I have allowed that. The church comes first, always. Matthew has a duty to  
the congregation. They needed him more than I did. My son, being the good man he is, offered to  
stay home and keep an eye on me, though I found it completely unnecessary.”

“You were too weak to even make a pot of tea,” Simon reminded his mother. “It was necessary.”

“Did you leave your apartment at all on Friday April 14th or Saturday April 15th?” Ian asked,  
clearing his throat when the woman clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes at his inquiry.

“I couldn’t lift myself out of bed to make tea, Mr. Gallagher. I was not gallivanting around town. I  
remained in my apartment until I felt as though I had recovered enough to emerge on Tuesday  
April 18th. I regret that I wasn’t able to provide more support for my dear friend, Shay, who was  
coping with the loss of her beloved son. I’m sure you’ve seen the medical records that corroborate  
the state of my condition at the time.”

“I have,” Ian nodded. “According both your statement to the police and phone records, you called  
Simon at 6:52pm to request that he come to your apartment and help you set yourself up in the  
shower.”

“Before Matthew left for the Poconos he placed a shower seat in the stall for me. The steam  
helped break up the mucous, but I didn’t feel comfortable showering when I knew I was alone in  
the apartment in case I were to fall and knock my head or something equally mortifying. Simon  
walked me to the bathroom and waited outside the door until I was in my robe, ready to be  
escorted out. Once I showered, I got back into bed and waited for my sweetheart to come home.  
He said he’d be bringing me my favorite soup, which I was very much looking forward to.”

“And Simon, prior to arriving at your parents’ apartment, you were at Faith Redeemer preparing  
your classroom for Sunday school the next morning. In your statement, you said that was  
something you did every Saturday night?”

Simon nodded. “We kind of make an event of it. Several of the teachers grew up in the church so  
we’re all really close. Usually, we prep our classrooms and then hang around eating pizza or  
whatever in the lounge for a while.”

“And was that your intention on the night of Saturday April 15?”

“Not really,” he answered. “Most of our group was beat from the retreat, so they didn’t show up.  
It was just Tyler and me. If my mom hadn’t called me, I would have probably heated up  
something in the freezer and hung out with him, but..” his voice trailed off.

“We thank the good Lord that Simon wasn’t there,” Sara said with tears in her eyes. “If I had  
waited even an hour longer to call him, we could have lost him. A thought that is,” she paused,  
“incomprehensible.” She rested a hand on top of her son’s. “We struggled to conceive for years  
before Jesus answered our prayers and gave us Simon. It was ironic that I suffered the same  
affliction as my namesake, because as you know, my Old Testament counterpart dealt with  
infertility until she was blessed with her son Isaac at 91 years old. Luckily, I didn’t need to wait  
that long. We gave Simon his name because it means ‘the Lord heard’ and he did. He heard us  
and we couldn’t be more grateful. He is our greatest love and our biggest achievement. I believe  
that Jesus himself compelled me to make that call. Lord knows what would have happened if I  
hadn’t.”

“Do you have any more questions for us?” Simon asked, letting out a labored sigh. “My mother’s  
upset and I think it’s enough for today.”

The prosecutor nodded, thinking that their answers hadn’t given him anything except the creeps.

Chapter Twenty-Four: Dinner and Other Delights

Mickey’s dinner with Andrew had been nice. It was rare that he had the opportunity to spend time  
with his friend without Mandy being present. While he didn’t mind his sister being around, it was  
good to bullshit with his buddy without her chiming in. It had been difficult to keep his  
relationship with Ian out of the conversation, especially when Andrew had noticed the subtle  
changes in his affect and called him out on it. Knowing that whatever he said to Andrew would  
get back to Mandy, he kept his lips sealed. It was tougher than he expected, so he was  
exceedingly thankful for the fact that Woodrow’s had trivia on Thursday nights and that his friend  
was a big nerd who was distracted by it. The diversion had only lasted so long and Andrew’s own  
questioning reached a fever pitch when Mickey ordered a full meal to take home. He’d attempted  
to play it off, saying that he was going to bring it to work for lunch the next day, a lie that he’d  
clearly half-assed and one that earned him an intensely unimpressed look from his friend who  
called him ‘a shady shithead.’ He couldn’t deny it, but he didn’t have any food at his place, and he  
knew Ian would be hungry when he came over.

Though he’d spent several nights with Ian over the last couple weeks, the majority of their time  
together was spent at his apartment, rather than the redhead’s. It wasn’t that Ian’s place wasn’t  
nice, it was just that his was more spacious and serene. While he didn’t typically give their usual  
sleeping arrangements a second thought, putting the takeout meal on a plate in anticipation for the  
other man’s arrival, he couldn’t help but feel guilty that Ian was going to have to go out of his way  
to come to him after a long day of work and a yoga session. It was strange that things he would  
have never even considered before were on his radar when it came to Ian’s comfort and  
convenience. When he heard a knock on the door, he popped the food into the microwave for 30  
seconds and headed to the entry to let him in.

“Hey,” he said, wondering if the pang of excitement he felt whenever Ian greeted him with a kiss  
would someday wane. “How was yoga?”

In the past, Mickey would have most certainly mocked the shit out of a dude who did yoga, but he  
just couldn’t find it him to tease Ian. Whatever bends and stretches he was doing had his body cut  
in ways that Mickey salivated over. Getting to touch, taste and admire every inch of him was  
enough to have him chanting ‘namaste’ and singing the praises of the ancient exercise. The added  
bonus was how adorable he looked in the sweatsuit he threw on after his class.

“Really good,” Ian replied, laughing when Mickey reached up to tug the hood onto his head,  
yanked the strings so it tightened around his face, and planted a kiss on his scrunched up lips.

“Squishy,” Mickey mused, giving the fishy face in front of him another smooch. “Why are you so  
goddamn cute? Hmm?”

“You like me,” he crooned playfully, loosening the cinch until the hood fell of his head.

“I really fucking do,” he agreed, giving Ian’s ass a smack and gesturing for him to follow him into  
the kitchen. “I got you dinner.”

“Wow, thank you. I was just going to eat your ass but actual food will probably be much more  
nutritionally dense.”

“Shut up,” Mickey laughed, placing the plate in front one of the stools that was tucked under the  
counter. “I know it’s not as healthy as what you usually eat,” he said, noticing the way Ian was  
staring down at the bacon cheeseburger and fries.

“Your ass.”

“Right,” he said, flipping him the bird, “but they don’t got kale at a pub.”

“It’s perfect, you’re perfect,” he assured him, taking a big bite of the burger while holding the  
thumb on his free hand up.

“Now I know you’re full of shit,” Mickey chuckled, coming up behind him and wrapping his  
arms around his waist. Resting his chin on Ian’s shoulder, he grinned when the redhead turned his  
head enough to press a full-mouthed, sloppy kiss on his cheek. “You’re like a platypus.”

“You just like to call me any variation of pussy you can think of.”

“That’s kind of true,” he relented, tussling his hair. After getting one more kiss from the redhead,  
he let go and sat on the seat beside him. “I almost told Andrew about you.”

“Oh yeah,” Ian asked, raising his eyebrows in surprise. “I would’ve had to kill you.”

“I know,” Mickey nodded.

“It’s not that I don’t want people to know how I feel about you,” he began, putting down the  
burger and wiping his hands on a napkin.

“You don’t have to explain anything.”

“After the trial’s over I’m going to bend you over and fuck you in the middle of Times Square.”

“Fuck off,” Mickey laughed, stealing a fry off the plate. “Even though your judgmental ass clearly  
doesn’t believe it, I actually give a shit about my career and don’t want a mistrial.”

“Could you imagine the headlines?” Ian mused, “They’d be so scandalous: ‘Homophobic  
Televangelist’s Lawyer in Scalding Gay Affair with Opposing Counsel.’”

“You don’t have a future in journalism.”

“Do better,” he challenged. “Let’s see how clever you are.”

“You know I’m clever as a motherfucker, Gallagher.” He crossed his arms over his chest, thinking  
of a way to one-up Ian. “Hmm, how about,” he voice trailed off as he continued to wrack his  
brain. “I got it. ‘Gay Sex Scandal Rocks the Courtroom as Oliver’s Attorney Gets Railed by  
Prosecutor and Fucking Loves it.’”

“That’s too long to be a headline,” Ian laughed. “That’s, like, a whole lead.”

“You were a nerd who wrote for your high school newspaper, weren’t you?” he said with a  
knowing grin.

“Editorials Editor.”

“Of course. King of Sharing Opinions Nobody Asked For,” Mickey teased, pinching Ian’s cheek  
before giving it a tender pat, grunting a ‘hey’ when the redhead attempted to bite his hand.

“What were you into in high school?” Ian questioned, entwining his fingers with Mickey’s and  
giving each of his knuckles a kiss.

Before he’d met the other man, Mickey would have cringed at the incessant stream of affection  
they showed one another. In the past, if a guy had even attempted to hold his hand, he would have  
pulled away and never given the sad sack the time of day. Everything was different with Ian.  
Mickey felt compelled to have his hands or lips on him whenever he could, not able to get, or  
give, enough of the little touches that kept them constantly connected. Nothing ever felt forced,  
instead way too natural to deny.

“Um, mostly crime,” he replied, smirking at the look of shock on Ian’s face. “What?”

“Really?”

Mickey shrugged. “I guess that was more in middle school. High school I just studied like my life  
depended on getting good grades,” he clicked his tongue, “because it kind of did.”

“What do you mean?”

“Did Mandy ever tell you about our dad?”

“Just that he was a piece of shit.”

“Yeah, well, that’s really all there is to him,” Mickey said, sniffing uncomfortably. It wasn’t often  
that he talked about his past and even less frequent that he’d mention his father. “He’s an abusive  
deadbeat who’s doing life in Rikers. I fucked around with some of the same stuff he did when I  
was growing up, but after my third stint in juvie, I decided to change things up.”

“What was the impetus for that?” Ian questioned, turning on the stool so he could fully face  
Mickey.

“I guess I really took to the therapy they provided,” he grimaced, feeling vaguely embarrassed by  
the admission. “They basically told me that the only way I’d be able to get away from my dad for  
good was to fuck off from Bedford-Stuyvesant, get into college, preferably one far from  
Brooklyn. So my freshman year I started to give a shit. I knew I needed to get scholarship. We  
were poor, you know?”

Ian nodded. “And you got into Yale. That’s pretty impressive.”

“I didn’t get a full ride or anything. I still had to take out loans that I’ll probably be paying until the  
day I die.”

“Ah, higher education,” Ian sighed, rolling his eyes. “Is that what made you go into defense?  
Your loans?”

“No it’s not, prick,” he huffed, punching the redhead lightly in his arm. “I know you may find it  
hard to believe, but I was an idealistic idiot and thought I could make a difference. I worked as a  
public defender for a while, in the juvenile courts.”

“No shit.” The astonishment on Ian’s face was obvious.

“Mmmhmm. It was frustrating as hell. I gave more of a shit about the kids’ lives than they did. I’d  
see the same assholes cycle in and out of the system for years, not giving a fuck. When I finally  
couldn’t take it anymore, I left, started my own defense firm, and,” he held his hands up as if to  
present himself, “here I am.”

“So you had a passion for helping troubled kids?”

“I guess.”

“That’s really admirable,” Ian said sincerely, placing a hand on his lover’s cheek and leaning in  
for a kiss. “Really, really admirable.”

“I mean, I quit so I don’t know how commendable it was. It was hard to not see a change. It was  
like banging my head against the wall.”

“Sometimes it takes a while, but it doesn’t mean it never happened, maybe you just didn’t get to  
witness it. Have you volunteered or anything since? Is it something you still think about?”

He shook his head. “I’m not stupid. When I see shit is useless, I don’t keep doing it. I move on.”

“That’s sad.”

“It’s sad to you, because you’re a dumbass who keeps doing it, day after day, you keep thinking  
you can make this dramatic change in a fucked up world,” Mickey informed him.

“You’re how I used to be, maybe one day you’ll get it, too.”

“You’re jaded,” Ian chided.

“You’re delusional,” he retorted, sliding his hand under the hem of Ian’s sweatshirt and resting it  
on the warm skin over his hip. “A sweet, sexy, delusional bitch.”

“I’m crazy about you, too,” Ian grinned, chuckling when Mickey kissed him. “My blasé  
boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend, huh?” he asked, markedly raising his eyebrows. “Are asking me or telling me?”

“What will get me the best response?” he queried, standing up to put his plate in the sink.

“Honestly, either,” Mickey answered with a smirk, grunting when Ian grabbed him by the ass.

“I’ll figure out my approach while I eat my dessert,” he decided, hoisting Mickey into the air and  
walking towards the bedroom.

“Your mouth will be too full to go for it.”

“I’ll get it done,” he promised, planting a kiss in the crook of his neck.

Mickey laughed as he allowed himself to get carried away.

Chapter Twenty-Five: Voir Dire

Voir dire, a French phrase for ‘that which is true’ held a very different meaning in the American  
court system, namely, jury selection. It just so happened that on that fateful Monday, jury selection  
held a very different feeling to Ian than it ever had before. For the first time, he would be standing  
in a court, opposing Mickey, and the truth was, he was nervous as hell. When they were alone  
together, his boyfriend was fun, flirty, free, and completely unrecognizable from the man who  
walked into the courtroom like he owned it, ready to evict the squatters who were in his space. It  
was unnerving to stand so close to him, but feel so far away. It shouldn’t have hurt Ian that  
Mickey didn’t so much as glance in his direction, but his heart clearly hadn’t received the memo.  
As they stood behind parallel tables, listening to the judge read the jury selection parameters that  
they had heard so many times before, Ian couldn’t help but feel Mickey’s presence. Between them  
was a connection that drew them together, against any resistance they’d tried to enact and it didn’t  
lessen just because they had wanted it to in that particular situation.

Knowing that he had to bury his nagging need, Ian did his best to focus his attention elsewhere,  
tuning in to the judge’s monotonous voice droning on about something he already knew so well.  
Desperate for reprieve, after only a few moments of abstinence, he allowed his eyes to travel back  
to Mickey, admiring how handsome he looked in his charcoal grey suit. Making a mental note that  
he wanted to utilize his man’s baby blue tie later that night, he settled his gaze on Mickey’s perfect  
profile. It was wild how different it looked with the rich woodwork of the courtroom behind it,  
rather than the usual backdrop of the window beside his bed. His jaw looked rigid and his eyes a  
paler shade of cerulean as the fluorescent lights bounced off his irises.

There were times when Ian found it hard to believe that Mickey was his boyfriend; that the tough  
as nails, tell-it-like-it-is ball-buster wanted to be with him. He wanted to cuddle up against him,  
listen to his thoughts and kiss him until he needed to gasp for air. After years of putting priority on  
his job rather than romance, he’d finally opened himself up to making a relationship his priority. It  
made him feel special and settled when he considered how much care his boyfriend exhibited  
towards him. He just hoped that he returned the affection in a way that made Mickey feel loved.  
Loved. It wasn’t too long ago that Ian would lay in his empty bed, wondering if he’d always  
spend the rest of his life sleeping alone. The random hookups of his early 20’s has lost their luster  
nearly a decade before, and he had wanted something real. He wasn’t sure if he was truly falling  
in love with Mickey, or if infatuation and incredible sex just made it feel that way. Regardless, he  
felt lucky every day that there was a chance Mickey could love him, and that he could be in love  
with him too. Though he knew it was too soon for confessions of the sort, it didn’t stop him from  
daydreaming about the day when it wouldn’t be.

“Do you have any questions before we begin?” Judge McDunough asked, leaning back in his  
seat, not fazed by the heinous squeak as the chair screamed in protest. “Any questions, Mr.  
Gallagher?” he repeated, causing Ian to instantly snap to attention.

“No questions,” he stated, clearing his throat. As much as he had desired eye contact with his  
boyfriend moments before, the weight of Mickey’s stare- urging him to get it the fuck together  
felt stifling and unwelcome.

“Are you alright?” Rachel whispered, as the bailiff brought in the first group of the array.

Ian nodded and took a few sips from the glass of water on the table. Jury selection for a high-profile   
trial like Matthew Oliver’s could take weeks, if not months. Knowing Mickey’s  
predisposition to be a obstinate dick when it came to matters of the court, he feared they were in it  
for the long haul.

Voir dire was dry, tiresome, and exceedingly important, a potent combination for a man who  
found himself preoccupied by the presence of his boyfriend, who was doing a much better job  
remaining even-keeled than he was. At least during the trial itself, the pace would be more  
engaging, no doubt leaving him less prone to distraction. He hoped that he was just rattled because  
it was the first time, since they’d reconnected, that he’d been in a room with Mickey, unable to  
regard him in any way other than as an adversary. It was impossible not to recognize, however,  
that Mickey was intimidating. Ian couldn’t even imagine how much more imposing he would  
have found him if they hadn’t gotten together. There was an aura of success and power around  
him, and while Ian thought it was hot in the bedroom and beyond, he wasn’t such a fan of it in the  
courtroom.

“Tune in,” Rachel muttered, elbowing Ian gently.

He knew he had to pull it together. The jury selection process was of paramount importance and  
he needed to be focused. Deliberately, Ian looked every person in the group in their eyes, making  
sure they recognized that he saw them, valued them. Making a good first impression was  
imperative, as was building positive rapport. He had his list of questions on the tip of his tongue  
and he was hopeful they would roll off it easily when it came time for him to take the floor.

“Prosecutor,” Judge McDunough called, gesturing for Ian to approach the potential jurors.  
Ian cleared his throat and moved towards the jury box. “Thank you all for your service today.  
Though jury duty isn’t glamorous,” he said, giving a few of the women in the group a smile that  
earned him the giggles he knew he would, “it’s our civic duty as citizens of this great country to  
participate and let me say, your participation is valued. To begin, I’m going to ask the whole  
group a series of questions which you’ll answer by raising, or not raising, your hand. There are no  
right or wrong answers, so if for some reason I call out your number and say ‘strike for cause,’ it  
just means this case is not for you and you’ll be forced to head home to your comfortable house  
and enjoy a day off work.” Another smile had the majority of the jury grinning back at him, and  
the defense attorney behind him clicking his tongue in annoyance. “After I ask general questions  
of the group, I will move to more specific questions for certain people. Just answer honestly and to  
the best of your ability. Let’s begin. Who here feels that they could not convict the Defendant  
unless there was some sort of physical evidence linking him to the crime?” Of the twelve potential  
jurors, three raised their hands. “Strike for cause two, six and seven.”

“Sustained,” the Judge said, “jurors two, six and seven, please refrain from answering any further  
questions.”

“You must believe that the Defendant is guilty beyond a Reasonable Doubt, but how many of you  
would require the State to prove guilt beyond All Doubt?” Ian asked, thinking he couldn’t wait to  
strike anyone who raised their hand, because admittedly, he didn’t have much of anything on  
Oliver. “Strike for cause one and five.”

“Sustained,” the Judge said, “jurors one and five, please refrain from answering any further  
questions.”

“Who here feels that men and women of the cloth generally compose themselves in more  
honorable ways than those who are not members of clergy?” When he saw four hands go up, he  
had to hold himself back from shaking his head. Had none of them heard of the countless Catholic  
priest molestation scandals? “Strike for cause four, ten, eleven and twelve.”

“Sustained,” the Judge said, “jurors four ten, eleven and twelve, please refrain from answering any  
further questions.”

“Who here has viewed Matthew Oliver’s services on Sunday mornings either on television or in  
person?”

Juror three raised her hand.

“In what capacity have you watched?” Ian asked, moving in a bit closer to appear warmer and  
more welcoming of her answer.

“Honestly,” she said, her voice shaking slightly with nerves. “I just kind of hate-watch sometimes  
so I have things to tweet about.”

Ian forced himself not to grin and nodded his head, not surprised when he heard his boyfriend’s  
voice call, “Strike for cause, bias.”

“Sustained,” Judge McDunough noted. “Any questions for jurors eight and nine, counselor?”

“I defer to the defense,” Ian said, sitting back down.

He watched as Mickey approached the box, standing in front of the two remaining jurors.

“Juror eight,” he began, “if my client did not testify, would you believe it was because he is  
guilty?”

“Yes,” he answered confidently.

“Strike for cause,” Mickey stated.

“Sustained. Juror nine remains.”

“Juror nine, same question: if my client did not testify, would you believe it was because it was  
because he is guilty.”

“No,” the young man said matter-of-factly.

“Would you automatically believe the testimony of a police officer or detective?”

“No.”

“Have you been personally affected by a crime similar in nature to the crime my client is accused  
of?”

“No.”

Mickey nodded his head to signal to Judge McDunough that he didn’t have any further questions,  
leaving Ian impressed that they’d already managed to agree on a juror. He couldn’t help but think  
of how that boded well for their potential future and their innate capacity to compromise.  
The positivity plummeted to Earth like a lead balloon, when they spent the rest of the day  
throwing strikes like they were professional bowlers competing in the championship.  
By the time the court went on a short afternoon recess, Ian’s head was fuzzy and he was in dire  
need of nicotine. Standing outside the courthouse, smoking his cigarette, Ian couldn’t help but  
smirk at the distance Mickey very purposely kept between them as he embarked on the same  
activity. Realistically, it wouldn’t have been out of the ordinary for opposing counselors to make  
small talk in the situation, but there was nothing ordinary about their circumstance.  
When his phone vibrated in his suit pocket, Ian pulled it out and glanced down at the text message  
on his screen.

Mickey (3:45pm): You’re SO fucking annoying.  
Ian (3:45pm): That’s pretty funny coming from you: King of Peremptory Strikes. They taught you  
at Yale that you only get 10 in a felony trial right?  
Mickey (3:46pm): Obama went to Yale.  
Ian (3:46pm): So?  
Mickey (3:47pm): Trump went to Penn. Don’t worry about what I learned.

Ian rolled his eyes, laughed, and looked up to give his boyfriend the finger.

Ian (3:48pm): asshole  
Mickey (3:49pm): Stop flirting with the juror chicks. It’s nasty.  
Ian (3:49pm): it’s called being endearing, you should try it sometime.

It was Mickey’s turn to flip the bird.

Mickey (3:50pm): It’s gross and you’re mine.  
Ian (3:50pm): Ah, the jealous type.  
Mickey (3:51pm): The don’t fuck with me type.  
Ian (3:52pm): I’m going to fuck with you tonight.

He looked up and smirked when he caught the smile on Mickey’s face. He couldn’t wait.

Chapter Twenty-Six: A Scene on Halloween

“Really?” Mickey asked, attempting to look unamused as he narrowed eyes his boyfriend, who  
was standing in the hallway outside his apartment, holding a plastic pumpkin nearly overflowing  
with candy. “I told you I just ignore the bell.”

“And I told you I love Halloween,” Ian reminded him, laying a sticky smooch on his mouth.

“You taste like Snickers,” he mused, licking his lips in order to fully enjoy the flavor.

“You taste bitter, like some old dude who yells at kids to get off his grass,” Ian teased, placing the  
candy on the entry table.

“So you’ve tasted a lot of old dudes then, Gallagher?” he shot back, laughing when the redhead  
gave him a playful swat on his ass. Reaching down with ninja like reflexes, he grabbed Ian by the  
wrists and yanked him in close. “You look good,” Mickey told him, his voice just low enough to  
shift the vibe towards sultry, “always look so goddamn good, man.” He sighed into the kiss that  
Ian planted on his lips, before licking his way into his lover’s mouth. Their tongues tangled and  
lapped as they reconnected in the foyer of Mickey’s apartment.

Before they had embarked on a marathon Voir Dire that had finally completed after two grueling  
weeks, they hadn’t had the chance to see each other during the day. It had almost been easier that  
way, less tortured by proximity. Being forced into the same room for hours on end, without being  
able to touch or talk to one another, had been a strange form of sadism that they’d both struggled  
to cope with. It used to be, prior to jury selection, that they’d spend every few nights together, as if  
daring to increase the frequency would somehow cause them to fall too far, too fast. Their self-imposed  
light diet gave way to heavy appetites, which caused them to constantly crave and rarely  
abstain.

“Take your fucking shirt off,” Mickey ordered, lifting Ian’s hoodie and t-shirt over his head in one  
fell swoop and tossing them to the ground. “I gotta see you.”

Though Mickey had denied his sexuality for a significant portion of his life, there was no question  
that he’d always been gay. For as long as he could remember, he’d fantasized about being taken  
by another man, dominated, like he handled the opposition in the courtroom. While being into a  
guy wasn’t out of the ordinary, the extent in which he found himself wrapped up in Ian was. With  
other men, he’d be attracted to their muscles, faces and cocks, but it was never anything like it was  
with Ian. He found himself mesmerized by every cut and curve of his body, every expression on  
his face, and every word that pushed past his lips. No matter how much he tried to deny it, or to  
hold back to protect his pride, Ian was everything.

Kissing his way down his neck to his torso, and finally dropping to his knees, Mickey allowed  
himself to worship Ian’s ripped up abdomen, and inch even lower. “Been thinking about this beast  
all day,” he crooned, freeing Ian’s hard on from the boxer briefs that had been working overtime  
to contain it. He was just about to take his boyfriend into his mouth when a knock on the door  
abruptly halted the action.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” he groused, when Ian quickly tugged up his pants and threw  
his sweatshirt back on.

“I want to see what they dressed up as,” he said excitedly, as he reached for the candy and headed  
to the door.

“They’re probably vampires, ghosts, and some other shit that doesn’t take any effort,” Mickey told  
him, completely unimpressed. They could have shown up dressed as Jesus himself and he  
wouldn’t have given a shit.

“Wrong,” Ian announced as he swung open the door to see two sweet little princesses.

“Trick or treat,” one of the toothless girls said, her lisp in full effect.

Mickey watched Ian practically melt at the sight of them, a phenomena that made him feel  
anxious, no matter how hard he tried not to let it get to him. Despite himself, he was really far  
gone on Ian, but that didn’t mean he all of a sudden wanted shit that he hadn’t wanted before; at  
least not when it came to the suburban love story Mandy had warned him that Ian wanted, prior to  
their coupling. He wasn’t delusional enough to believe he was a leopard who would magically  
change his spots, or that Ian was either. When it came down to it, he didn’t know if the life he  
wanted was one that his boyfriend would be happy with, and that scared the shit out of him,  
almost as much as his feelings for Ian did.

“Did you see them?” Ian asked as he closed the door. “They were princesses of some sort. I think  
from that snowman movie. ‘Do you want to build a snowman’ or whatever.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Mickey said, standing up and smoothing our the knees  
of his jeans.

“My niece watches it. Frozen. That’s what it’s called.”

“I don’t care,” Mickey assured him, dodging the Reese’s cup that came flying at his face.

“That was for Reese,” Ian informed him with a grin. “She loves that movie.”

Mickey rolled his eyes, picked up the candy and made his way into the living room so he could  
lay back on the couch and eat it in comfort.

“She was a cat tonight,” Ian said, shoving his phone into Mickey’s face. “Luke was a mouse.”

“Cute,” he stated unenthusiastically, but he couldn’t deny that they were, with red hair reminiscent  
of Ian’s and cheerful freckled faces.

“I want you to meet them,” his boyfriend told him, snuggling onto the couch beside him.

“I’m morally opposed to spending time with children under any circumstance,” he replied,  
crossing his forearms over Ian’s chest and pulling him closer.

“You have morals?” Ian poked, laughing when Mickey abruptly put him into an awkward angled  
headlock. “I’m not saying you’d have to babysit them. Just sit at the table and have a meal.”

“Would the meal end with banana pudding cupcakes?” Mickey questioned, peppering the nape of  
the redhead’s neck with kisses.

“Probably.”

“Not interested.”

“After the trial,” Ian decided, “that’s when we’ll go?”

“Did I go on mute?”

“Hmm?” Ian turning his head enough for Mickey to see his smirk.

“You’re a funny guy tonight, aren’t you?” he teased, grasping one of his boyfriend’s biceps and  
squeezing it as an indication he should turn around.

“I think I’m always clever,” he retorted, giving Mickey a few flirty Eskimo kisses before smacking  
their lips together.

“Clever people don’t say they’re clever,” Mickey informed him, patting his cheek before going in  
for another kiss.

“What do they say?”

“Something more clever than that.”

“Like what?” Ian challenged.

“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “I never claimed to be clever.”

“I think you are.”

“You think the sun shines out if my ass.”

“I’m very familiar with your ass and I can confirm that’s true. It does. I can’t wait to bask in those  
rays,” Ian crooned, reaching around to tuck his hands under the waistband of Mickey’s jeans so he  
could grab two heaping handfuls of ass.

“You don’t have to wait. We can turn music on in the bedroom and ignore the door,” he  
suggested, instinctively rolling his hips so his bulge knocked into Ian’s. “We’ll be doing the kids a  
favor, preparing them for a lifetime of disappointment.”

“You just radiate so much positivity,” Ian mused, grinding back on him. Rolling them over so he  
was on top of Mickey, Ian looped his arms around his boyfriend’s knees and held his legs tight as  
he continued to rut against him.

Hunching his back, Mickey slid his tongue into his boyfriend’s mouth, grasping the crown of his  
head and kissing him ardently. “I want you,” the brunet mewled, just as there was another knock  
on the door. “Don’t,” he groaned as Ian climbed off him.

“They’ll all be in bed in an hour, and we will be too,” Ian promised, grabbing the pumpkin and  
opening the door for the next round of candy seekers.

“Trick or treat, smell my feet. Give us something good to go eat. If you don’t, we don’t care, we’ll  
pull down your underwear!” two Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles chanted in unison.

“What the fuck?” Mickey muttered, pulling himself up to look over the back of the couch at the  
annoying kids. “Tell those rude little shits to fuck off.”

“He cursed,” Donatello told his mother, who was standing behind him, glaring into the apartment  
at Mickey.

“I heard,” she said, crossing her arms angrily over her chest. “Obviously, this man lacks holiday  
spirit.”

“Your kids lack manners,” he countered with pursed lips.

“He’s mean,” Michelangelo cried, backing away from the door.

“He’s not...” Ian sighed, “he’s uh, sorry,” he added, pouring half the contents of the pumpkin into  
the kids’ pillowcases. “Too much sugar can make people cranky.”

“Too much bullshit can make gingers unattractive to their boyfriends,” he grumbled, lying back on  
the couch and putting a pillow over his face. Ian was annoying as hell, but there was no way he  
would ever be unattractive to him, which aggravated Mickey more.

“You’re such an asshole,” Ian chided, once he closes the door. “Are you trying to tell me you  
didn’t say shit like that when you were Trick or Treating?”

“Never went Trick or Treating so... I didn’t,” he told him, his voice muffled by the pillow.

“You’re so fucking privileged you forget that people didn’t grow up like your spoiled ass.”

“I was far from spoiled,” Ian disagreed. “You never went Trick or Treating?” he asked, his voice  
tinged with sadness as he kneeled beside the couch.

“I’m not crying about it,” Mickey scoffed, tossing the pillow at Ian. “We didn’t have a  
Thanksgiving Turkey or goddamn Christmas tree either.” He laughed at the devastation on his  
boyfriend’s face. “Are you serious right now, Ian? It isn’t a big deal.”

“It is to me,” he said softly. “Have you ever had a Christmas tree?”

Mickey shook his head, placing a hand on Ian’s cheek. “You’ll get through this, okay? You’ll be  
alright.”

“We’re getting on this year. We’re going to go up North to a Christmas village and get a big tree  
that we can decorate,” he decided. “We can put it,” he glanced around the room and pointed to the  
corner just beyond the French doors that led to the small balcony, “right there.”

“No. It’s not important to me.”

“It’s important to me,” Ian told him. “I want to look at your face with twinkle lights reflected on it.  
I want to get matching Christmas pajamas and make pancakes together on Christmas morning. I  
want to fill your stocking with dumb shit and watch ‘A Christmas Story’ on repeat.”

“I thought you were an atheist.”

“I am, but I love Christmas.”

“My man’s such a hypocrite,” Mickey crooned with mock dreaminess.

“Christmas isn’t even about religion anymore.”

“I’m sure Matthew Oliver disagrees.”

“We’re not supposed to be mentioning his name,” Ian reminded him. “He makes us fight more  
than usual.”

“We argue anyway,” he pointed out.

“Yeah, but we talk about Matthew we actually get pissed.” He rose to his feet at the rapid  
knocking on the door. “Last one,” he promised, ruffling Mickey’s hair. “Then we’ll go into the  
bedroom and turn on the music.”

Mickey grinned, happy to be done with the interruptions, but his gaiety was short-lived when he  
heard his sister’s voice croak out a confused, “Ian?”

Shit.

Chapter Twenty-Seven: A Couple of Couples

Ian stood in front of Mandy with his heart racing as if it had sprinted out to the hallway, slid down  
the banisters of the stairwell, and got the fuck out of the apartment building, just like he was dying  
to do. It wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted to tell his friend, he had, several thousand times, it was more  
that it hadn’t been the right time. He and Mickey had decided that they’d tell her after the trial,  
when they could put Matthew Oliver, and the case as a whole behind them. There was already  
enough stress on their relationship and they didn’t need to add the extra layer of other people  
knowing about it, especially when the most important, and outspoken, of those people was  
someone who didn’t think they were compatible to begin with.

“What the fuck?” Mandy exclaimed, once she retrieved her jaw from the floor. “Are you two...?”  
She shook her head as If even the thought if Ian and Mickey together was incomprehensible. “I  
know you’re not. I know I’m not really seeing this. You’re a figment of my imagination. You!”  
She cried pointing at her brother who was approaching the door, “I know you wouldn’t take the  
Oliver case, knowing I’d have to recuse myself only to fuck the prosecutor on that case.”

“Get in here,” Mickey growled, peeking his head out beyond the door frame to make sure there  
was nobody in the hallway to hear.

“Ian’s the mystery hamburger eater?” Andrew asked as he and Mandy entered the apartment. He  
held the pizza in his hands out towards Ian. “Do you eat pepperoni?”

“When I have an appetite,” he replied, feeling like he was about to vomit on the floor.

“Oh! Are you upset, tender little asshole who accepted my recusal while fucking my brother?”  
Mandy asked, her face bright red with anger.

“We weren’t fucking then,” Mickey said plainly, taking the pizza box from Ian’s hands so he  
could carry it to the couch and shove a good portion of a slice into his mouth. “We fucked on the  
night I told you was going to fuck him. I told you,” he garbled, with a shrug. “You knew.”

“Mick,” Ian warned, garnering him an eye roll from his boyfriend as he finished chomping his  
food.

“So this isn’t just sex,” Mandy breathed, flabbergasted. “You tell him to shut up and he actually  
does. This is more than sex. What is this?”

Ian watched as Andrew rested a hand on the small of Mandy’s back and guided her towards the  
loveseat across from the sofa. “I’m pissed,” she snapped at him. “They’re liars. They used me and  
I’m pissed.”

“I didn’t use you,” Ian said tentatively, sitting on the edge of the couch, beside Mickey. “We  
hooked up that once and didn’t talk for a while. We’ve only been together for a month, with the  
trial and everything, we thought it would be better to...” his voice trailed off, “I tried to stay away  
from him. I knew it was wrong, but...”

“He was relentless?” Mandy offered, earning the middle finger from her brother.

Ian shook his head. “It was the other way around.”

“No it wasn’t,” his boyfriend disagreed.

“I’m crazy about him. I couldn’t stop thinking about him for months,” the redhead admitted.

“Who didn’t know that was going to happen?” Mandy scoffed. “I told you he gets wrapped up in  
shit,” she said to Mickey. “I warned you that he’d want more than you were willing to give.”

“How do you know how much I’m willing to give?” Mickey challenged, reaching for another  
piece of pizza.

“History,” Andrew suggested. “Cari’s friend Connor is still reeling from the relationship that never  
was.”

“Connor’s an idiot then. I told him it wasn’t going to be anything. He should’ve listened.”

“And is this something?” Mandy questioned, incredulously. “Or is Ian just the next one you toss  
out of the car to lie on the side of the road on Heartbreak Highway?”

“That’s really fucking dramatic,” Mickey chided. “And yes it’s something. It’s a lot of things.”

“What kind of things?” Andrew ventured, grinning at Mickey who laughed and rubbed his  
forehead. “Let’s hear all about it.”

“You’re so goddamn annoying, B.J.,” he admonished.

“I’m just a sap. I want to know what it is about Ian that makes him different. Not that I I don’t  
think you’re great,” Andrew added quickly, looking to the redhead. “It’s just that... it’s Mickey.  
He’s kind of a player.”

“So I hear,” Ian mused, grinning at Mandy who averted her gaze, still very obviously fuming. He  
reached for Mickey’s hand and intertwined their fingers; an action that had Mandy and Andrew’s  
eyes wide with surprise. A knock on the door prompted him to give Mickey’s hand a squeeze  
before making his way to the door, glad to have a moment’s reprieve from the uncomfortable  
conversation.

“Wow,” he murmured, taking in the teenager in a full body, tie-dye suit that completely covered  
every inch of him. “What are you?”

“A morph,” the kid replied, his voice muffled by the spandex.

“That’s,” he dumped the remainder of candy into his pillow case, deciding that the cute little kids  
were clearly done for the night, and so was he, “kind of weird.”

“Holy moly!” he chirped. “Thanks for all the candy, Mr. Sir.”

“Uh, no problem,” Ian replied, locking the door and heading back to the sofa to sit next to his  
boyfriend.

“I never thought you’d be so unethical,” Mandy told the prosecutor as soon as he’d reappeared,  
shaking her head in disbelief. “I had to recuse myself because I’m related to Mickey. I would have  
never told him shit, but I recused myself. I did it because it was the right thing to do. I did it so  
there wasn’t a question of ethics or a chance of a mistrial. I did it so we could get Matthew Oliver,  
because that’s fucking important. And you,” she sighed, “you’re okay with risking everything all  
of a sudden? I thought this was important to you. I thought this was a top priority.”

“It is,” Ian assured her, leaning forward and nodding his head. “It’s so important to me. I would  
never...” he paused, knowing he couldn’t tell her that he wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize the  
case, because in reality, he already had. “That’s why we haven’t told anyone. We’re keeping  
things low key until after the trial.”

“And then what?” she asked. “What about appeals?”

“You’re assuming I’m gonna lose, which just,” Mickey clicked his tongue and looped his arm  
around Ian’s waist casually and planted a series of smooches on his jawline, “isn’t gonna happen,  
right?”

Any other time, Ian wouldn’t have thought much of the display of affection, seeing as though it  
wasn’t out of the ordinary for them, but he couldn’t help but feel exposed under Mandy and  
Andrew’s dumbfounded gazes. “Wrong,” the redhead promised distractedly.

“Do you guys do this all the time?” Andrew asked, looking thoroughly amused. “Like, how often  
do you give each other shit about the case?”

“As little as possible,” Ian confessed. “It’s the only thing we really fight about, so we avoid it.”

“That and it’s, you know, an ethics violation,” the paralegal reminded him.

“Oh get your head out of your ass, Mandy,” Mickey groaned. “We don’t talk about specifics.  
Everything is surface or theoretical. We both want to fucking win, alright? We’re not gonna be  
able to do that by telling our plans to the opposition.”

“And by opposition you mean...” his best friend began, studying Mickey’s face.

“My boyfriend,” he replied, matter-of-factly.

“Your boyfriend,” the couple exclaimed in perfect unison.

“Those are words I never thought I’d hear come out of your mouth,” Mandy admitted, softening  
slightly at her brother’s statement. “So this is serious?”

Both Ian and Mickey nodded.

“How serious?” Andrew pressed. “You said it’s been a month officially, but does it feel long-term?”

“It does to me,” Ian stated plainly.

“That’s not surprising,” Mandy assured him. “King of Commitment.”

“You assume that, but when have you ever seen it?” he challenged, grinning at his friend. “Hm?”  
“I just know what you want, Ian. You’ve told me. I want you to have it. I want you to find  
someone who wants to give that to you.”

“And you’re saying I’m not that guy?” Mickey interjected, raising his eyebrows.

“Are you that guy?” she retorted, raising her eyebrows right back.

“What kind of guy is it?” Andrew asked, confused.

“A forever guy,” Mandy told her fiancé. “Like you are for me. Are you a forever guy, Mick?”

“I’m a one-month-in-guy,” he replied. “I’m one month in and I want more months. I think that’s  
good enough for now.”

“It’s good for me,” Ian smiled at Mickey, before turning to his sister. “It’s great for me.” And it  
was. Though they’d spent countless hours talking, they hadn’t explicitly expressed their emotions  
since the night Ian came straight to Mickey from Philly.

“You guys look happy,” Andrew noted. “Really happy and that makes me happy. Does it make  
you happy, Mands?”

She sucked her teeth and shook her head, blue eyes looking exhausted and overwhelmed by the  
events of the evening. “You know when you use a word so much, it actually loses its meaning?”  
she questioned, resting her hand on Andrew’s knee. “You just did that with happy.”

“Does that make you unhappy?” he teased, giving Mandy a kiss before reaching for the pizza on  
the coffee table. “Want a slice?”

She shook her head. “My stomach is still flipping.”

Ian could relate. No matter how much he tried to draw eye contact from Mandy, he couldn’t get it.  
The fact that she was struggling to even look at him was disheartening to say the least. Though  
they hadn’t been lifelong friends, he’d loved her from the moment they’d met and was grateful for  
the relationship they’d built. He was aware how poisonous a breach of trust could be for any  
relationship and he didn’t want his secrecy, and the decisions he’d made to ruin what they’d had.

“Mandy,” he said, waiting for her to give him her attention. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry about,” Mickey tsked. He grasped the back of Ian’s neck  
and started to give him a very subtle massage.

“I do though,” he disagreed. “I know what I’m doing is fucked up.”

“Who,” she corrected. “Screwing the opposition on a case like this; who you’re doing is fucked  
up.”

“I’ve crossed lines,” he said contritely. “I know I have and it’s a shitty thing to do. I’m not  
denying that. I’m sorry you had to recuse yourself. I know I should, too.”

“But you’re not fucking going to,” Mickey stated. “He’s not going to,” he informed his sister,  
“and you’re done apologizing,” he told Ian. “You don’t have to grovel, man.”

“I don’t want you to recuse yourself anyway,” Mandy sighed. “You’re by far the best we have. If  
anyone has a chance to win, it’s you.” She shook her head. “It just sucks, you know? It’s such a  
major case and I would’ve liked the chance to be on it. My blood prohibited me, and you just go  
ahead and dive headfirst into this relationship, even though you should’ve waited. It’s unfair.”  
“It is,” Ian confirmed. “It’s unfair and it’s shitty.”

“And it wasn’t just you,” she said, shooting a dirty look at Mickey. “You could’ve turned down  
the case if you wanted to bang Ian. I could’ve stayed on.”

“I didn’t know I wanted to bang him until I was already on the case,” her brother told her simply,  
“and I’m not apologizing for being with him.”

“Maybe you could apologize for the circumstances,” Andrew suggested, as he chewed the crust.

“Maybe you could mind my own business,” Mickey shot back.

“She is my business. I don’t want to end up unemployed,” the blond said with a smirk.

Mandy couldn’t help but giggle at the statement as she locked eyes with Ian, who was chuckling  
too. “Don’t end up unemployed,” she warned the redhead, “like, literally, don’t. I can’t imagine  
not seeing your face everyday. You’re playing with fire, and I’d miss you so much if you got  
canned.”

“I know,” Ian nodded. “We’re being careful.”

“And you’re using protection?” Andrew asked with a shit-eating grin. “There are so many ways  
to be careful.”

“Don’t worry, Planned Parenthood. Ian’s not going to end up knocked up anytime soon,” Mickey  
grunted.

“I was more worried about you,” his best friend stated, swatting down the couch cushion that had  
been launched at his head. “Hey!”

“Can we not?” Mandy groaned as Andrew sent it barreling back. “All is a sudden I’m glad you’re  
going to be subjected to this torture with me,” she told Ian. “We can eat chocolate while they fight  
like middle schoolers.”

“Sounds good to me,” he decided, going to grab the pumpkin.

And it did.

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Opening Statements

Mickey never got anxious or nervous before a trial. He was confident enough in his skills to not  
engage in any sort of worry. Every so often, he’d deal with a moment of doubt, but they were  
fleeting and not usually backed up with a substantial reasoning. There was, however, a  
strangeness in the air on the morning of November 14, 2018, a peculiarity that had him feeling  
slightly uncomfortable. He wondered if, perhaps, it was because he was standing across the aisle  
from Ian, who was getting showered with the attention of every person who entered the room, as  
if his boyfriend was the White Knight and he was the dragon. Of course Mickey was used to  
being regarded as the ‘bad guy,’ but it didn’t feel as odd as it did when Ian was involved. Though  
he’d never admit it, regardless of what they were doing, he wanted to be on Ian’s side. It felt more  
natural that way.

He rose to his feet when Judge McDunough entered the room, and reminded Matthew not to  
make any faces, gestures or noises during Ian’s opening statements. “It will just make you look  
bad,” he warned, as he watched Ian button his suit coat and approach the jury box. He’d never  
seen a person wear a suit better than his boyfriend did and he wanted to buy a car for his tailor as a  
‘thank you.”

“Tyler Parks,” Ian began, his voice sounding strong and sure as spoke. “I want you to remember  
his name. Moments after the judge reads the verdict that you will eventually reach, most of the  
general public won’t recall the moniker of the victim of this heinous crime. For years to come,  
people will reference the happenings of the next few weeks as the trial of Matthew Oliver, long  
forgetting the man the defendant murdered. Matthew Oliver, the boisterous, outspoken  
Televangelist, who has built a business for himself by exploiting and maligning marginalized  
peoples so successfully that the ALCU considered petitions to name the Faith Redeemer  
Evangelical Church, his church, a hate group. Matthew Oliver, a man who hypocritically preaches  
kindness for thy neighbor, while being abhorrent to his. Matthew Oliver, a man who values the  
millions of dollars he’s made more than the word he vowed to propagate. Matthew Oliver, a man  
who owned a gun because, and I quote, “the devil has pissed his poison into the non-believers’  
souls and commands them to destroy me.”

Ian paused, a dramatic intermission to allow the words to sink into the jury’s’ minds. “Do you  
believe?” he questioned, looking at the jury with raised his eyebrows, “Or are you full of the  
devil’s pissed poison? To Matthew Oliver, there’s no in between.”

“Pissed poison?” Mickey whispered to Matthew who nodded his head. “Don’t fucking nod,” he  
growled at his client through gritted teeth. “The jury’s always watching you.”

“The gun that Matthew Oliver owned to protect himself from the rabid, piss-poisoned   
nonbelievers was kept in a shoebox on the closet floor in his office in the Faith Redeemer Evangelical  
Church, an office that school children frequently had access to. Matthew Oliver, a man who  
preaches about the preciousness of life, yet doesn’t protect the lives of the kids in his congregation  
by properly locking up a loaded firearm; just another example of his unchecked hypocrisy. As if  
that level of carelessness wasn’t criminal enough, Oliver conveniently claims this shoebox gun,  
which was registered to him, was stolen at some indeterminable point, only to be used for a  
homicide and found in a dumpster two blocks from the Faith Redeemer Evangelical Church and  
four from the Olivers’ apartment, rife with Oliver’s fingerprints. Due to the corrosive components  
of our skin’s pH, we know that fingerprints can remain on steel for prolonged periods of time;  
however, the average latent print recovery rate is 10% on firearms. Most guns are treated to  
prevent rust, and that same treatment makes it rare to lift latent prints off such surfaces. 10%.  
Explain to me how a man, who claims to not have even known his gun was missing, managed to  
cover it with fingerprints that the CSI’s labs were easily able to lift. Not only that, Matthew  
Oliver’s fingerprints were the only fingerprints found on that Springfield Armory XD.”

Ian slid his hands into his suit pocket, looked down, and sighed. If it had been any other  
prosecutor putting on such a show, Mickey would have found it obnoxious, but it was Ian and he  
couldn’t help but think it was really fucking cute.

“Jurors,” Ian began, shaking his head as he glanced at each of them. “We have the gun. We also  
have a shoestring alibi from Oliver, who claims to have been working on a sermon in Central  
Park, accompanied by only the pigeons, while his wife Sara Oliver was incapacitated in their  
apartment with a vicious case of Bronchitis, an apartment, may I add, that has a full home office  
which Sara and his son, Simon, confirmed he often worked in. Why on that night did he decide to  
preach to pigeons?” He held his arms up dramatically.

“Tool,” Mickey muttered, rubbing his forehead in attempt to forget what he’d just witnessed.

“Speaking of the Olivers’ apartment, the Crime Scene Investigators noticed something peculiar  
within its walls. There was evidence that a fire was lit in their fireplace within 24 hours before the  
investigation and among the ashes were remnants of some type of cloth. Soiled clothing perhaps?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t burn cloth in my fireplace. I burn wood,  
sometimes marshmallows if I’m in the mood for s’mores,” he grinned and Mickey noticed a few  
of the jurors chuckled at the statement, “but never cloth. As New Yorkers, we know that the  
spring weather is temperamental. In mid-April we’ve had temperatures as high as the mid-eighties  
and as low as the high-forties. On April 15, 2018, the daytime temperature was a comfortable 76*  
and the nighttime temperature was unseasonably warm 68*, hardly fireplace weather.”

Matthew leaned in close to Mickey to ask, “Is he trying to prove there’s a crime in liking a toasty  
home? He’s such a delusional faggot. See how tight his pants are? He’s flaunting his sins.”

Doing his best not to punch his client in his face, Mickey just pursed his lips and told the bigot to  
“shut the fuck up. Just sit there quietly, alright?” He cleared his throat when Ian glanced back at  
him, obviously distracted by the whispers.

“The defendant’s attorney will ask you ‘why’? Why would Matthew Oliver murder a pious  
Sunday school teacher, a man who devoted his life to the church Oliver runs? He’ll bring up  
doubt. He’ll ask you to make “reasonable” assumptions, but he’ll want you to forget the facts.  
He’ll want you to look past who the gun was registered to; whose fingerprints were on the  
firearm; and whose house, church and errand are blocks from where that weapon was found; but  
you can’t do that. You can’t forget the facts in the case in favor of harebrained stories. You can’t  
forget that when all is said and done, justice needs to be served. You can’t forget that this case is  
about a man and that man isn’t Matthew Oliver,” Ian said pointing at the defendant. “Do you  
remember his name? The man who I said people would forget?” He paused, looking at the jury  
for a moment before continuing. “His name was Tyler Parks and he was a genuinely good man.  
He was kind and caring, bright and funny. Tyler even dressed up like Santa Claus every year to  
make the school children’s holidays special. Perhaps Matthew Oliver was threatened by his  
charisma? Jealous of his natural likability? Maybe Mr. Oliver himself was piss-poisoned by the  
devil. Don’t get lost in the theories. Focus on the facts. Matthew Oliver murdered Tyler Parks and  
he is not above the law. As you listen to the defense attorney, witnesses, and even me? Keep  
Tyler Parks in your mind. He deserves to be remembered. Thank you.”

If Mickey blinked, he would have missed the tiny wink Ian gave him as he took his seat. Ian  
talked a lot of shit in private about owning the courtroom, but it was the first time Mickey had ever  
seen him back it up, and it was goddamn sexy.

“Counselor,” Judge McDunough said, gesturing for Mickey to approach the box.  
He stood up and strode over to the jury with a swagger he’d hoped had his boyfriend  
simultaneously worried and turned on.

“Let me start by saying, I won’t be as verbose as the prosecutor was, not because I don’t have  
anything to say but because I don’t need to muddy the water to distract from the bottom line,  
which is, there was no reason for Matthew Oliver to harm Tyler Parks in any way, let alone to  
murder him. It’s not about good or bad, right or wrong. It’s about motive, and how the prosecutor  
doesn’t have one,” he said plainly. “As a jury, you've been tasked with the important job of  
synthesizing the abundance of information you’re going to get, and believe me, there’s going to be  
a lot of it. You’ll be asked to answer the question, ‘has the prosecutor proven without any  
reasonable doubt, that Matthew Oliver murdered Tyler Parks,’ and I can you tell right now, he  
won’t be able to.” When Mickey felt his boyfriend’s eyes boring into his back, he knew he had  
him. “Because I have that doubt. His name is Salvatore Liando. Once I share more about him with  
you, you’ll have it, too, and you won’t be able to convict Mr. Oliver. It’s as simple as that. Thank  
you.”

“That’s it?” Matthew whispered harshly as Mickey sat down. “That’s all you’re going to say?”

“Yup,” the lawyer confirmed. “That’s all I need to say.”

“The prosecutor did a one man play up there and you just asked about someone’s day, took a  
stroll in the park, gave a two minute speech in your Public Speaking class at the community  
college,” he grunted.

“No.” Mickey shook his head. “What I did was get you a ‘not guilty’ verdict.”

“That’s what you did?” Matthew exhaled, biting his lower lip as he studied Mickey’s face.

“That’s what I did,” he confirmed, watching the anger dissipate from the pastor’s face.

“Thank you.”

Mickey nodded while partially listening to the judge’s spiel to the jury and mostly stealing glances  
at Ian who was gripping his leather file so tightly his knuckles had gone white. It was in that  
moment he knew his suspicions were correct, he didn’t have anything.  
Once court adjourned, he waited for the room to empty out, before following Ian’s bobbing red  
head as he walked through the crowded hall towards the bathroom. Upon entry, Mickey stood in  
the corner beside the stall and watched his boyfriend hunch over the sink to splash water on his  
face. As the droplets trickled down Ian’s nose, the brunet approached him, reaching down to give  
his hand a squeeze.

They’d talk later.

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Theories and Queries

Why? It was a question Ian asked himself twenty times a day. Why would Matthew Oliver murder  
Tyler Parks. After the DNA debacle, he’d tried to not get too wrapped up in outlandish theories,  
worried he’d end up just as far off course as he had before. Still, he considered every soapy option  
he could think of, disappointed, but not shocked when he wasn’t able to produce a shred of  
evidence to back them up. They all centered around one common theme -illicit affairs.  
In Ian's wildest dreams, Matthew Oliver was gay. He knew his twisted desire to shine a light on  
what a hypocrite the pastor was had led him down a path of projection that was riddled with his  
own fantasies of vindication, a train of thought that had most likely absconded the truth, but  
goddamn did he relish in the slim possibility. He imagined himself standing in front of the jury,  
gesticulating while he walked them through the torrid relationship between Matthew and Tyler;  
lovers who hid themselves away, too scared, or proud, to admit they were gay. The whole idea  
should have saddened him; two men so concerned about the social construct of their screwed up  
sect that they denied who they were, but it didn’t. Whichever way he could get Matthew Oliver  
was a good enough way for him. The man was a cancer who fed off others’ propensity to hate  
what they didn’t understand while calling it religion.

Perhaps it was a lover’s quarrel that ended terribly, with Tyler turning the tides, finally fed up with  
being Matthew’s man on the side. Maybe he’d demanded more than his lover was ready to give  
and become a problem that needed to be dealt with. But when the prosecutor really let himself get  
carried away, he created a salacious story focused on the snooty Sara Oliver. He’d presume she’d  
found out about the long running affair and ordered Tyler be taken care of, too worried about their  
reputation and finances to be concerned about the life of her husband’s bedmate. Regardless, Ian  
couldn’t shake the feeling that the prim and proper proto-priestess was an impetus. He hadn’t ruled  
out the chance that it was Sara who was having the affair with Tyler, an act of infidelity that thrust  
the Televangelist into a violent tirade that culminated in murder.

And then there was Simon. It wasn’t Beyond the realm of possibility that the pastor’s son had a  
romance with the victim, in fact, it had been a theory Ian had investigated extensively via  
interviews with friends, photos on Instagram and posts on Facebook. There wasn’t anything that  
indicated their relationship was anything other than platonic, which wasn’t very surprising,  
considering the public forum. Ian had done more than just a surface perusal. He had started with  
pictures from several years back, looking at their eyes and body language in each one. He’d hoped  
he would find something to hint at the theory, figuring if he could prove Matthew’s son was  
linked to Tyler, he could identify a motive. In court, Ian could easily reference the televangelist’s  
shame, an assault on his fucked up views, or a relationship that would no doubt be bad business,  
as reasons for Matthew ridding the world of Tyler; any or all would do. Alas, he had no luck.  
Ian had considered that the lack of motive was, in fact, proof that Matthew was innocent, at least  
of the murder. The longer he spent, perseverating on the case, the less likely it seemed that the  
pastor was guilty, which absolutely wrecked the prosecutor. If not Matthew, who? Though his gut  
told him to keep pressing forward, his mind was resigning to the very real possibility that the  
police had the wrong person. He wished he could be more confident about the evidence, the most  
compelling of which, after the gun’s registration, was the remnants of cloth found in the Olivers’  
fireplace. It was difficult to believe that it was anything but the clothes Matthew had worn when  
he’d shot Tyler Parks. Having come from the retreat hours before, Matthew would have had a  
change of clothes available to him for the potential of blood splatter. All he would have had to do  
was swap out his messy outfit for a clean one and go about his business dumping the gun and  
picking up Sara’s soup. What other reason would the Olivers have for burning fabric?  
Still, If he couldn’t put a finger on a possible motive, he’d need to come to terms with the fact that  
his defeat was imminent and it would be an exceptionally brutal loss to cope with. Not only would  
it halt his advancement into Rodney’s position, it could also prompt the city to open the  
opportunity to ADAs from other municipalities. While his career was suffering, Matthew’s would  
thrive. He would paint himself as someone who suffered an injustice at the hands of the law, a  
martyr of sorts who was delivered by his faith, thus gaining him a slew of new followers who  
would be looking to be saved from their issues too. He’d emerge unscathed, ready to cause more  
harm, a thought that made Ian feel physically ill.

Though in the past, one of the most undesirable parts of losing would have been Mickey winning,  
the effect of the outcome didn’t faze him anymore. His boyfriend worked hard. There were many  
nights when his phone would buzz with information from his paralegal and Mickey would need to  
excuse himself from the bed or couch to do research and get back with Joshua as soon as he  
could. He’d study while Ian slept and be reviewing documents when he woke up. It impressed the  
prosecutor as much as it worried him. As far as opponents went, Mickey wasn’t one he was glad  
to be facing. He was, however, always glad to see his face, even across the aisle from him in the  
courtroom.

“I’m gonna get lockjaw down here, man,” Mickey groused, letting his boyfriend fall out of his  
mouth.

“Sorry,” Ian muttered, tugging his boxers up and shaking his head. “I’m preoccupied.”

“I know and I’m trying to get your mind off that shit.”

“The problem is that I know I have to be focused on that shit and it’s fucking me up.” He sighed,  
draping his forearm over his face. “I’m fucking up.”

“I thought you did well today,” Mickey stated as he sat cross legged on the bed facing the redhead  
who had pulled up to do the same.

Letting out a wry laugh, he grumbled, “Not as well as you.”

“I mean, how do you compare a king to a god?” he teased, laughing when Ian gave him the  
finger.

“Ha, ha, ha,” he punched out, unamused and sarcastic.

“How bad is it?” Mickey questioned, his tone turning serious as he took Ian’s hand in his.  
“Without getting, you know, too heavy into the details or whatever, how bad?”

“Do you want me to tell you that your opening statements were right?” he challenged, pursing his  
lips.

The brunet shook his head. “Nah, I’m actually hoping like hell you’ll tell me they were wrong.”  
Ian looked at him dubiously before admitting, “I can’t do that.”

“No shit.” The air slowly sputtered from Mickey’s lungs. “The grand jury thought the gun was  
enough?” he asked, surprised.

“The gun and a weak alibi.”

“And you've looked everywhere? Not just at Matthew?”

Ian nodded. “Over and over again.” He watched as the defense attorney dragged his thumb along  
his lower lip thoughtfully. “I have nothing.”

“Fuck,” he sighed, his eyes going wide. “What are you going to do?”

With a small grin pulling up his lips, Ian reminded his boyfriend that they, “probably shouldn’t  
talk about that.”

“You have a plan though?” Mickey pressed, tickling his fingertips up Ian’s arm and dragging  
them back down slowly, a gesture the redhead would have found incredibly soothing if they were  
discussing another topic.

“I have one,” he confirmed, gnawing on the inside of his cheek. “Not a good one, but something.”

“You were good today,” Mickey assured him. “You know that I’d give you shit if you sucked,  
but you were good. I was impressed.”

“You ended me in two minutes. I tap danced for twenty and it took you 120 seconds to fuck me in  
the face.”

“That’s why I was trying to return the favor,” the brunet teased, lifting his eyebrows at his  
boyfriend who grabbed the sides of his face and planted a firm, fervent kiss on his lips. “Where’d  
that come from?”

“Thank you,” Ian said sincerely.

“For what?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged, “giving a shit enough to lie, being supportive even though you  
should just be dancing around the flames of my combusting law career.”

“Why the fuck would I do that?” Mickey laughed. “You’re so dramatic. You wish this was the  
end. You’re going to have, like,” he paused to do the math, “thirty-five more years of ulcers and  
sleepless nights.”

“Handling drug cases and traffic stops,” he whined, throwing himself back on the bed and burying  
his face with a pillow. Grinning into the fabric when he felt his boyfriend’s weight settling on his  
body, he allowed it to be yanked away and replaced by Mickey’s lips.

“Did you miss the part where I said you were impressive?” he questioned, kissing his way down  
his boyfriend’s jawline. “You would’ve had the jury in your back pocket if your pants weren’t too  
goddamn tight to shove them in there.” Hot air fanned over Ian’s neck as Mickey laughed at his  
own joke.

“So that’s what you were impressed by, huh? My ass in that suit?” he teased, feeling his body  
relax under the tenderness of the lips that were traveling down it.

“I have no idea how you shimmied yourself into them, but I was dying to get you out of them,” he  
said with a click of his tongue.

Ian felt his heart rate increase as his boyfriend paused at his belly button and gave him a  
mischievous smirk. “And you were thinking about this,” he asked, as Mickey continued to lick  
and kiss his way to the waistband of his boxers.

“Among other things,” Mickey informed him, once again removing his Calvin Kleins.

“What kind of other things?”

“Have I ever told you that you ask too many questions? Just shut the fuck up and let me take care  
of you, alright? And tell your mind to shut the fuck up too.”

“It doesn’t listen.”

“So, it’s the same as your mouth then?” Mickey smirked, wrapping his hand around the base of  
Ian’s ready cock.

“Do you know what you do too much of?” Ian asked, chuckling at the face his boyfriend made at  
the additional question.

“What do I do too much of?”

“Talking when you should be sucking,” he grinned, giving the other man’s shoulder a little push.

“Okay. I see you, Gallagher,” Mickey flirted, getting down to business.

Closing his eyes and tucking his hands behind his head, Ian allowed his man to work the stress out  
of his body, one lick at a time.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Thirty: Case-in-Chief

It didn’t surprise Mickey that Ian called Sara Oliver to the stand first thing Tuesday morning.  
Since Matthew had chosen to remain silent, the prosecutor had to go for the next worst person,  
which in the current circumstances meant his wife. His boyfriend hadn’t been shy in sharing his  
impressions of the lady, and Mickey had dutifully listened while simultaneously not caring at all.  
When it came down to it, he couldn’t comprehend how Ian had the energy to get so worked up  
about people who bloviated as much as they blew. He didn’t know why the redhead didn’t just  
regard them as the insignificant specks of shit that they were. The way Ian got so personally  
offended by their opinions and hate speech, had Mickey wondering if it was the Olivers who  
bothered him so immensely, or if it was what they represented. Either way, he was looking  
forward to being done with the trial and seeing his boyfriend’s near-constant state of torment  
assuaged.

He’d never had the chance to get to know Ian without Matthew and he vaguely wondered if the  
redhead got as fiery about the other people he prosecuted. It was an exhausting prospect that  
would no doubt lead Ian to a slew of mental breakdowns or an early grave. As much as Mickey  
liked him, and he liked him a hell of a lot, he wasn’t too keen on surviving the unceasing rotation  
of criminal trials the prosecutor embarked on if he always struggled to keep his emotions in check.  
Perhaps it was just the nature of the Oliver trial, coupled with the challenges it had presented him,  
that had Ian wrecked. All he knew was his man never missed a yoga class, fucked like a fiend,  
and still managed to be a mess of stress. Every time Mickey considered what he would do if, in  
the future, he realized that hyper-anxious was a state of being for Ian, he admonished himself for  
his weakness, because he knew he didn’t have the capacity to end things. Ian was as smart as he  
was handsome, caring, funny and everything Mickey didn’t know he needed until he found him.  
It was impossible to think of letting him go, even if he was a handful sometimes.

Mickey studied Ian’s face as the prosecutor watched Sara take her oath. He was biting his lower  
lip in a way that made defense attorney want to smack him upside the head for showing such an  
obvious tell to the jury and kiss his worries away. He was tall, long, and lean with muscular arms,  
abs and thighs, but he looked small sitting at the table, waiting to take the floor. Somehow the  
hulking majesty of the early 1900s courtroom, and his nerves, made him seem smaller and weaker  
in a way that made Mickey want to care for him; an unrealistic and unproductive line of thought in  
their given situation. He couldn’t wait until Ian was done with yoga and he’d finished his beers  
with the boys at Walts, so they could meet him. The overwhelming urge Mickey had to hold his  
boyfriend had him clenching his fists and forcing himself to remember that it was only 9:00am and  
he had at least another twelve hours before he’d be able to.

As if he felt the weight of the brunet’s gaze, Ian turned to him, trying to hold back the slight grin  
that threatened to turn up his lips when he caught him. Even the hint of a smile made Mickey’s  
heart pound in a way that had him wanting to punch himself in his own face for being so corny. It  
scared him sometimes how much had changed since she’d met Ian. Before him, Mickey had never  
considered that there could be just one person for him, having always been convinced that humans  
weren’t meant for monogamy. After him, there was no question, a truth that he found both  
terrifying and incredibly comforting at the same time.

Watching as Ian rose to his feet, took a deep inhale, and buttoned his navy suit jacket, Mickey  
could feel his boyfriend’s anxiety, but the cool, composed look he’d plastered on his face ensured  
the jury wouldn’t. As he asked Sara the cursory questions, he slid his hands into his pockets  
casually, a clear indication that he was calm and collected, though Mickey knew he wasn’t. He  
had to give it to Ian, he’d mastered the aura necessary to sell confidence, even when he didn’t  
have any reason to display it. Half of being a lawyer was being a salesman, and Ian could sell ice  
to Eskimo, which was the equivalent of what he was attempting to do. He couldn’t even imagine  
how dangerous a foe his boyfriend would be when he actually had a case. It wasn’t something he  
wanted to find out anytime soon. After the amount of sneaking around they’d been doing prior to,  
and during the trial, they’d both decided that facing one another was not something they intended  
to do again. When they spoke about the future, a practice that Mickey still found as odd as it was  
exhilarating, they agreed that they’d take turns recusing themselves from cases on which they  
would face one another. It was wild to think that they were already talking about making serious  
changes to their lives. Every so often, Mickey had a moment of panic, when he couldn’t believe  
how far gone he’d allowed himself to get, as if he’d had any choice. As soon as he’d laid eyes on  
him, he’d been a goner.

“So if you hadn’t been sick with bronchitis you would have gone with your husband on the Faith  
Redeemer annual retreat?” Ian asked, standing cross-armed in front of Sara, who let out a sigh at  
the repeat question.

“Just as I’ve answered several times, yes,” she replied. “I was sad to miss the excursion, I always  
find it opens my heart and mind beyond any capacity I thought possible. It is a true blessing.”

“But you requested that your son remain in NYC to look after you?”

“Yes. Matthew couldn’t miss out and though I felt guilty keeping Simon from the fun, it seemed  
necessary at the time to have somebody nearby to look after me in the state I was in.”

“And that state was incapacitated by the bronchitis for several days, correct?”

“Correct,” Sara confirmed.

“And were you taking medications for said bronchitis?”

“I was.”

“What types of medications did the doctor prescribe for you to take?”

“Objection,” Mickey interjected, “relevance?”

“Counselor?” Judge McDunough questioned Ian.

“Sara Oliver is one of two people who can confirm a portion of Matthew Oliver’s alibi, if the  
medications she was taking could inebriate her in any way, it’s important for the jury to take note.”

“Overruled,” the judge said to Mickey, who sat down thinking that his boyfriend was more wily  
than he looked. The pouty motherfucker had obvious slid on his big boy pants, a sight he was glad  
to see.

“The medications?” he repeated to Sara, who narrowed her eyes as he walked to his table to pick  
up a folder.

“Zithromax, Albuterol, Prednisone and codeine/guaifenesin,” she rattled off.  
Looking down at his papers, Ian nodded. “Zithromax, an antibiotic better known as the Z-pak ,  
prescribed to patients who have acute bronchitis and do not suffer from chronic bronchitis.  
Common side effects include: dizziness, tiredness, mild headache, nervous feeling, insomnia,  
ringing in ears and problems hearing,” he paused to glance at the jury before asking. “Did you  
experience any of those common side effects.”

“I did,” she confirmed.

“Be specific please,” Ian directed, placing the list in front of her so she could name off which she  
dealt with.

“Um, dizziness, tiredness, headache, nervous feeling and insomnia.”

“Thank you. Moving on. Albuterol is an inhaler to prevent bronchospasm. Common side effects:  
dizziness, tiredness, headache, insomnia, hoarseness, and nausea.” He placed he paper on the  
stand once again. Please share the side effects that impacted you.”

“Dizziness, tiredness, headache, insomnia and hoarseness.”

“Thank you. Prednisone is a steroid that helps with inflammation. Common side effects include:  
sleep problems, mood changes, weight gain, nausea, headache, dizziness, and spinning sensation.  
Please identify the side effects that you dealt with.”

“Sleep problems. I can’t speak to mood changes, headache, dizziness, and spinning sensation,”  
she answered curtly.

“Thank you. Finally, codeine/guaifenesin a cough suppressant and expectorant,” Ian stated.

“Common side effects: drowsiness, lightheadedness, dizziness, sedation, dry mouth, constipation,  
nausea, and rash. Please indicate which you suffered from.”

“Drowsiness, lightheadedness, dizziness, sedation, dry mouth.” She sniffed uncomfortably for a  
moment before adding, “constipation.”

“Thank you,” Ian nodded, “taking the paper back. So, is it safe to say at the time of the murder  
you were experiencing, drowsiness, lightheadedness, dizziness, sedation, dry mouth, constipation,  
insomnia, spinning sensation, headache, nervous feeling, hoarseness and possibly mood changes.”

“Yes.”

“Aside from the times that have been documented by cell phone records and receipts, can you  
without a shadow of a doubt confirm the hours which your husband arrived in or departed from  
your apartment.”

“Simon was with me,” she told him matter-of-factly

“Yes, but I am asking you if you can personally speak to the specific times,” Ian repeated.

“Objection,” Mickey stated. “Speculative.”

“Sustained,” Judge McDunough nodded.

The defense attorney had to stop himself from laughing at the glare he received from his  
boyfriend, but he wasn’t feeling as amused when he looked at the jury, who were hanging on  
Ian’s every word. It was obvious the prosecutor had done what he’d set out to do in proving that  
Sara, due to the cocktail of medications she was taking, was not a reliable alibi for Matthew.  
Systematically peeling apart any support for the pastor’s story was intelligent, but it wasn’t going  
to provide Ian with the motive he so desperately needed. As the redhead segued to questions about  
Tyler Parks, Mickey whispered back and forth with Joshua about counterpoints to make, while  
Matthew annoyingly tapped his foot beside him.

“Stop,” Mickey ordered the pastor. “You look nervous. Remember how I told you the jury’s  
always watching you?”

“I’m not nervous,” Matthew retorted. “I’m bored. He’s asking her the same questions in ten  
different ways.”

“Look less bored then.”

“I shouldn’t look annoyed or bored. How should I look?”

“You should look sympathetic to the fact that your wife is sitting on the stand being questioned by  
the State for a crime you’re accused of committing. You should look patient but firm. Solid,”  
Mickey whispered harshly, “Trustworthy. Pious. Less prickish.”

“Prickish?” Matthew asked confused.

“Douchey?” Mickey offered with a sigh.

The Televangelist shook his head.

“Like less of a dickhead,” he spat, drawing the attention of the judge who didn’t seem willing to  
ignore the outburst.

“Counselor,” he said, summoning Mickey to the bench.

Reluctantly the defense attorney approached, saying “I’m sorry, your honor.”

“I’m assuming I don’t need to tell you that you’re not a child in middle school and I’m not the  
principal, right Mr. Milkovich?”

“Right,” Mickey confirmed, nudging his knuckle against the side of his nose. “I was explaining  
something to my client.”

“That’s why we have recesses, which vary greatly from those offered in primary school.”

“Yes, your honor.”

“You may be seated.”

Mickey nodded, making his way back to his table, ignoring the amused look in his boyfriend’s  
eyes as he did.

Chapter Thirty-One: Same Love

Ian hadn’t expected to find anything when he had Detective Mavanelli take he and Rachel to  
Tyler Park’s classroom on Saturday afternoon. The week of testimony had been a bloodbath for  
him and he’d fooled himself into thinking that the next few days were do or watch his case die, as  
if it hadn’t already been dead on arrival. Regardless of how many fair points he’d made, and he  
had made many, Mickey had consistently followed with a statement that reminded the jury that  
there was no reason for Matthew Oliver to commit murder and Ian was pretty sure they agreed  
with him.

He’d searched the classroom a few months before, trying to trigger himself into a theory that had  
never come, but he was desperate enough to give it another go. Faith Redeemer’s administration  
had made the decision to keep the space untouched; moving Tyler’s classes to another room so  
that his classroom could be kept as a shrine of sorts, at least for a little while. Ian figured it had  
something to do with Tyler’s grieving mother, who for all intents and purposes, wasn’t afforded  
any comfort in her quest to lay her son to rest peacefully.

Instead of going in with an open mind, Ian had decided to enter the classroom with all the theories  
he’d somehow rejected and see if there was something he could find to support any one of them.  
After about a half an hour of sitting in Tyler’s desk chair, thinking, he glanced at Rachel, who  
looked just as lost as he was.

“I think we’re fucked,” he told her, wondering if he’d finally be able to resign himself to the fact  
that it was over, and begin to move past it.

“It seems that way,” she agreed, letting out an exasperated sigh. Ian had grown used to the sound  
of her frustration over the past few months, and he was sure that she would be hearing remnants of  
his in her nightmares for years to come.

“The snake’s going to walk free, huh?” Detective Mavanelli asked, shaking his head in  
disappointment.

“You think he did it, too?” Ian questioned, drawing a nod from the policeman.

“Off the record, of course I do. The guy is smarmy. Every time I interviewed him I felt he was  
hiding something. We all did. We celebrated hard when we found that the gun was registered to  
him. I’m guessing that wasn’t enough?”

Ian responded, sadly, “It’s not enough. I need a reason. No reason gives the defense boundless  
amounts of doubt, when they only need a sliver. I’m handing the “not guilty” verdict over to  
Mickey Milkovich on a silver platter with a smile.”

“You’re not smiling,” Rachel reminded him.

“So it’s service without a smile then,” Ian shrugged. “Either way, I’m handing it over.”

“Damn, that kid’s a rat,” the detective groaned. “This shit is getting worse and worse.”

“What kid? Mickey?” Ian asked, taken aback by the assertion.

“Absolutely,” he confirmed.

“Do you always call people in their early thirties kids?” the paralegal questioned, tapping her  
perfectly manicured fingernails on the faux wood desk table.

“Only kids like him,” Detective Mavanelli corrected, straightening his striped tie as he shifted his  
weight. “He’s a Brooklyn-born banger. A thug in a tie.”

“He went to Yale,” Ian stated, aware of the defensiveness in his tone. He attempted to temper it by  
adding, “I mean, Obama went there, so, that’s good company.”

Both the detective and paralegal looked at him quizzically, causing him to avert his eyes from their  
stares and focus on the white board in front of the room instead. There were several words written  
on it and a bible verse that he hadn’t found to be particularly interesting until he looked at it as a  
man who was rapidly falling in love; something he couldn’t have claimed on his first visit to the  
classroom, before things had gotten so intense between him and Mickey.

“Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins- 1 Peter 4:8,” he  
whispered to himself, finding it necessary to repeat the second part of the verse, “love each other  
deeply, because it covers over a multitude of sins.”

“Hmm?” Rachel asked, raising her eyebrows.

“I’m reading the verse on the board.”

“We’ve read that verse about fifty-four times,” she reminded him with a laugh. “We wrote it, we  
read it, we theorized about it.”

“I know,” Ian nodded. “I know, but it,” he paused and rubbed his forehead, “it just feels different  
now.”

“How does it feel?” Rachel pressed.

“Like love, love," he replied, "a romantic love, not love in the neighborly sense like we thought  
initially. A love that's wrapped up in the sadness of knowing that people you love think it's wrong  
and maybe in some capacity you still do too.”

“Are these freaks not allowed to have girlfriends or something?” Detective Mavanelli asked.

“Nothing like that came in my research. I didn’t think they were the no soda, no boning, no  
nothing set.”

Rachel scoffed and shook her head at the officer’s brashness, while Ian jumped to his feet.

“I don’t know about girlfriends, but they sure as hell aren’t allowed to have boyfriends,” the  
prosecutor answered, walking closer to the board as if proximity would help him to better feel the  
words’ intentions.

“We didn’t find anything about a relationship,” the paralegal reminded him, “let alone a  
homosexual relationship.”

“Would Matthew Oliver really kill the dude for messing around with other guys? Why not just fire  
him?” Detective Mavanelli added, taking a sip of his water. “Sorry to break it to you, Red, but  
usually when things don’t make any sense, it’s because they’re wrong.”

“He would if it would embarrass him or challenge him to reconsider all his fucked up beliefs,” Ian  
replied, hurrying to kneel in front of the book shelf beside Tyler’s desk. “Like maybe if the  
relationship was with his son.”

“We found nothing that justified that train of thought,” Rachel reminded him, “and we looked  
extensively, for weeks.”

“It could just be that we weren’t looking in the right place,” he said, grinning when he pulled  
Tyler’s Bible from the top shelf. “There you are.” As expeditiously as possible, he turned to 1  
Peter and scanned until he reached the correct chapter and verse. Beside the quote that also  
adorned the whiteboard was chicken scratch that read ‘there is no sin in loving you.’ For a  
plethora of reasons including immense sadness and sweet relief, Ian felt a warm well of tears  
build along his water line. “No shit,” he muttered.

“What is it?” Rachel asked, leaning over his shoulder so she could see the page. “There is no sin  
in loving you. Is that Tyler’s handwriting?”

“Find me a sample,” Ian directed, holding his finger in the page as he continued to look for  
notations among the scripture. “Detective, can you go grab Simon Oliver’s Bible from his  
classroom?”

“Not happening, counselor. I don’t have a warrant.”

“Can you close your eyes while I go get it?” Rachel asked, putting her hands on her hips as she  
regarded the officer. “I’ll put it right back where I found it.”

“I’m going to go take a piss,” he replied with a sigh. “It’ll take me about ten minutes and by the  
time I get back, we’re out.”

Ian and Rachel nodded enthusiastically before quickly getting down to business.

“Get Simon’s Bible and a writing sample if you can find one,” Ian ordered, turning the book over  
so the page he was holding was open on the desk. “I’ll take care of Tyler’s.” Tearing through the  
dead man’s drawer, he found a page of handwritten lesson plans and held them next to the notes  
in the Bible. “Holy shit,” he breathed, realizing that the writing wasn’t his. With shaky hands he  
turned page after page, realizing that there were hundreds, if not thousands of notations:  
Owe no one anything, except to love each other, for the one who loves another has fulfilled the  
law. –Romans 1:8 ‘If the Lord says it is so, then it is so, no?’

Complete my joy by being of the same mind, having the same love, being in full accord and of  
one mind- Philippians 2:2 ‘Did you listen to Macklemore’s new song “Same Love” yet? It’s really  
good and it was written for us.’

Little children, let us not love in word or talk but in deed and in truth. -1 John 3:18 ‘My truth is  
that I love you.’

Hatred stirs up strife, but love covers all offenses. -Proverbs 10:12 ‘We’re good then. It’s better to  
love than to hate any day.’

As soon as Ian heard Rachel open the door, he asked frantically,“When did Macklemore’s “Same  
Love” come out?”

“Do you think that’s information that I know off the top of my head?” she huffed, deciding  
immediately, “I’ll look it up.” She handed the lawyer Simon’s Bible and a sheet of paper, before  
pulling her phone to fetch the redhead the information. “July 18, 2012.”

“Six years ago. Jesus Christ,” he mumbled. “This has been going on for a long time. In 2012,  
Tyler would have been 17 or 18.”

“What’s going on?”

“Does this writing look like Simon’s?” he asked, pointing down at the page, waiting for Rachel to  
put the sample next to it.

“I mean, to my untrained eye,” she began, leaning in close, “it looks exactly the same.”

He nodded his agreement. “Give me Simon’s Bible,” he said, practically grabbing it from her  
hand. He grumbled an apology as he recklessly turned the pages. When a block of handwritten  
notes caught his eye, he laid Tyler’s lesson plan just above it. “They passed notes in their Bibles  
for years,” he breathed, when he saw that it was a match. “At least six, maybe more.”

“Tyler Parks and Simon Oliver were lovers,” Rachel repeated slowly, flabbergasted by the  
revelation.

“More than lovers,” he corrected. “Next to the verse: Love knows no limit to its endurance, no  
end to its trust. Love still stands when all else has fallen -1 Corinthians 13: 7-8, Tyler wrote, ‘The  
day I fell for you was the day that I knew this verse was true. From the end of me to the end of  
you. I love you.’”

“I’m going to cry,” Rachel warned, sniffling as she pressed a knuckle against her eyes. “They  
were in love.”

“Profoundly,” Ian confirmed, feeling like he was moments away from bursting into tears himself.  
“The notes are everywhere.”

He spent the next few moments reading off page after page to the paralegal:

Love yesterday, today, and forever –Jeremiah 31:3 ‘I can’t wait to love your forever.’  
God has poured out his love into our hearts –Romans 5:5 ‘How could we be wrong if He filled us  
with this love?’  
I have found the one whom my soul loves –Song of Solomon 3:4 ‘and my heart, my toes, my  
eyes, my nose, my lips, my skin… get the point?’  
This is my beloved, and this is my friend –Song of Solomon 5:16 ‘The luck we have that we’re  
both’  
Many waters cannot quench love, rivers cannot wash it away. –Song of Solomon 8:7 ‘We can’t  
scrub it of . We should stop trying.’

“So we have it,” Rachel said once devastated green eyes looked up at her. “The motive. It’s right  
here. We’ll tell Mavanelli to get a warrant for Simon’s classroom, have a handwriting expert  
confirm and we have Matthew Oliver’s reason for killing Tyler Parks.”

“How sad is that,” Ian stated, shaking his head. “I thought this would feel much better than it does  
right now.”

“It’s sad,” she confirmed, “but he’ll rot for this. He’ll get what he deserves.”

“And what about Tyler? Simon?”

“We have to determine how much the latter knew,” Rachel said carefully. “He was called home  
right before the murder. It seems like a setup.”

“Fuck, this keeps getting worse.”

“You should be happy,” Rachel reminded him. “This is the break we needed.”

“Then why does it feel so awful?”

She sighed and shook her head. “Because murder’s awful. I have to put this back before he’s done  
fake peeing and then we need to strategize.”

Ian nodded, feeling like he’d been hit by a freight train of emotion and hating every minute of it.

Chapter Thirty-Four: Just Hold On

They’d been together for a little over a month, and Mickey hadn’t gone a night without at least  
texting with Ian before they went to sleep. It’s not that they felt obligated to do so, it was more that  
they wanted to. That’s why it struck the defense attorney as exceptionally strange when he didn’t  
hear anything from his boyfriend on Saturday night. While he knew that he was hard at work  
earlier that day, he’d assumed that the redhead would be in his bed before the night ended, just as  
he had been for the past several weeks. When he’d texted him and received no reply, he found it  
odd, but it wasn’t until he woke up to a lack of response that he started to worry.  
Deciding that he needed to bring in reinforcements, Mickey picked up his phone to call Mandy  
and Andrew’s apartment line, his go-to move when he didn’t know which one he preferred to talk  
to.

“Mickey?” Mandy’s sleep drenched voice rasped. “Is everything alright?”

“I called and texted Ian a bunch of times last night didn’t hear back from him.”

“Are you fucking serious right now, Mick? You’re calling at 6:30am on a Sunday to tell me your  
boyfriend’s ignoring your calls.”

“I don’t know why he would be,” he continued, unfazed by his sister’s apparent annoyance. “I  
know he had some work to do yesterday, but I figured he’d show up after he was done.”

“Maybe he got hung up,” she suggested. “He could’ve gotten into a zone and just tuned out of  
everything else. I’m sure you’ve done that, too

“That’s not like him. He’s more conscientious than that. He expects me to be too....”

“And you give me shit about being whipped,” Andrew teased in the background.

“Fuck off, B.J.,” Mickey grunted. “It’s not fucking difficult to pick up the goddamn phone and tell  
someone if you’re not going to show up. I’m supposed to fucking fight with him over that?”

“Sounds like you’re ready to fight with him now,” Mandy pointed out.

“Yeah, well. He’s a hypocrite. He’s always making a big deal about communicating and he falls  
off the face of the Earth.”

“How long has it been since you spoke to him?” his best friend asked.

“I don’t know? A day.”

“You probably just pissed him off,” Andrew decided. “If he’s anything like your sister, all you  
have to do is grovel a little bit, buy him a meal and give him some oral.”

“A.J.!” Mandy cried, and from the scuffling on the other end of the line, Mickey could tell she  
was beating her fiancé with a pillow.

“What?” he laughed. “It’s solid advice. The man’s obviously distraught.”

“I’m not distraught,” Mickey disagreed. “I’m confused.”

“I meant Ian,” he corrected, seemingly having commandeered the phone. “You may not think you  
did anything wrong, but you probably did. That’s just the way it works.”

“You make being in a relationship sound so miserable,” Mandy chided.

“My boy needs real talk. I can’t feed him bullshit. You have to figure out what you did to piss him  
off and tell him you’ll never do it again.”

“I can’t get over how much you like him,” Mandy noted. “This is serious, huh?”

“Well, he seriously called at 6:30 in the morning for advice. If that doesn’t scream serious, I don’t  
know what does,” Andrew told her.

“True,” Mandy said. “Are you in love with him, Mick?”

“Fuck. It’s too early for this shit.”

“You called us,” his sister reminded him.

“Yeah, so the least you can do is give us the dirt,” Andrew added.

“You’re lucky you’re not in the room with me right now,” Mickey stated, entirely fed up with the  
useless conversation.

“Why? Are you naked or something?” Andrew asked. “I’ve seen it all before and lived to tell the  
tale.”

“Not for long,” the annoyed brunet promised. He was about to go into greater detail when a text  
message interrupted his train of though. “I gotta go.”

“Where?” Mandy questioned. “Are you going to pick us up bagels and coffee as a ‘thank you’ for  
our wonderful early morning advice.”

“Um, no,” he replied. “Talk to you later, skank.” With that, he ended the call and toggled to the  
text from Ian.

Ian (6:36am): Hey. Sorry I didn’t get back to you last night. Work had me kind of messed up.  
Mickey (6:37am): Ok  
Ian (6:37am): I didn’t expect you to be up.  
Mickey (6:39am): Were you hoping I wouldn’t be?  
Ian (6:39am): What? No. Why would you think that?  
Mickey (6:40am): I don’t know. I’m tired.  
Ian (6:41am): Are you going back to sleep?  
Mickey (6:41am): Probably  
Ian (6:42am): Want some company?  
Mickey (6:43am): Depends on who it is...  
Ian (6:44am): A guy who needs his boyfriend.  
Mickey (6:45am): Yeah, alright. He’s ok.  
Ian (6:46am): Want me to bring anything over?  
Mickey (6:47am): Starbucks and 2 packs of cigarettes.  
Ian (6:48am): Breakfast of champions.  
Mickey (6:49am): Get like us.  
Ian (6:49am): Beasts.  
Mickey (6:50am): I’ll go unlock the door.  
Ian (6:51am): See you soon.

The sudden wave of relief he felt made it obvious to Mickey that Ian occupied a good amount of  
real estate inside his heart, a truth that had been evident for months, even when he had tried to  
deny it. The stubborn, idealistic, redhead had worked his way in without event trying, which both  
terrified and astounded the recently reformed player. He couldn’t help but reflect on the possibility  
that other men had felt the same way about him, while he’d felt nothing. With Ian, he felt too  
much and the thought of having him walk away was devastating. If he believed in karma, he  
would have thought that was the outcome that was bound to happen; his callous heart was made  
tender only to be pummeled by the first man he allowed himself to care about.

Closing his eyes, he willed his mind to stop ruminating on the fear he had experienced when he  
hadn’t heard from Ian the night before. He’d never been needy before. He’d existed in a perpetual  
state of preservation for as long as he could remember, clinging to his ambition and wherewithal  
more than his blood. It wasn’t until after he’d earned his undergraduate degree that he’d allowed  
himself to get to know Mandy in a more meaningful way than dual survival. She’d shown him  
that he was capable of love after all, but it seemed Ian was proof positive that his capacity to feel  
the emotion wasn’t just familial.

Cold hands sliding under his bare shoulder blades and the weight of his boyfriend’s body resting  
on his had Mickey grinning and mumbling a sleepy, “hey there.”

“Hey,” Ian whispered back, peppering his lips with kisses. Fingers raked through hair as heads  
tilted, deepening the connection while tongues tangled with want.

“Missed you last night,” Mickey admitted, blue eyes sinking softly into green.

“I’m sorry. I had a hard day,” he apologized, rolling off Mickey so he was lying beside him.

“Didn’t find anything?” the brunet asked sympathetically, wrapping his arms under Ian’s armpits  
and resting his hands at the nape of his neck.

“Worse.”

“How could it be worse than that?” Mickey questioned, wondering what could be more repugnant  
than losing.

Ian sighed and averted his eyes. “It just is,” he replied vaguely.

“You found something that exonerates Matthew?” Mickey asked hopefully, giving his boyfriend a  
cheeky grin.

“You wish,” Ian laughed, shaking his head. “No,” he paused as though he was trying to choose  
his words carefully, “it’s kind of the opposite.”

“No shit. You found a motive?”

Ian nodded.

“I should be the one sulking then, right?”

“It doesn’t feel like a victory,” Ian said sullenly.

“That’s because it’s not yet,” Mickey reminded him, shifting his arm so he could free his hand and  
trace a finger the down slope of his nose with smirk.

“It’s indisputable.”

“Says the value vigilante,” Mickey teased. “I made a career disputing the indisputable. Don’t  
know if you’re aware, but I kind of have a streak going on...”

Ian rolled his eyes and chuckled. “Yeah, I think you told me once or twice,” he joked, the smile  
quickly falling from his face. “I feel bad it’s going to end.”

“Why are you talking shit looking like I just pissed in your Cheerios?” Mickey scoffed. “Where’s  
the swagger, man?”

“I’m being honest. I do feel bad,” Ian repeated. “You’re a great lawyer. I mean, really, really  
great.” He placed his palm on Mickey’s cheek. “I’m endlessly impressed by you, even though it’s  
difficult for me to fathom how you could ever defend animals like Matthew Oliver.”

“You’ve given better complements,” Mickey noted with a laugh. “A job’s a job. You have to start  
understanding that or you’re always going to be sad about the bullshit that goes down in cases like  
this.”

“How do you reconcile ruining someone’s life?” the redhead questioned, his eyes glassy and  
forlorn.

“That’s dramatic for 7:00am. I don’t think I have.”

“It wasn’t about you. It was hypothetical I guess,” Ian replied, letting out an exasperated sigh.

“Are you worried about getting Oliver?” Mickey asked, incredibly confused by his boyfriend’s  
affect. “You’ve been starving for it for months, now you give a shit? What changed? I mean, I  
don’t know if he’s a murderer, but I’m not gonna pretend he’s not a nasty motherfucker.”

“It’s not about him.”

“Who’s it about then?”

Ian’s silence was deafening.

As they laid in the heavy air of uncertainty, they found each other’s hands, holding on as they  
attempted to come to terms with what seemed to hint towards inevitable losses for both of them.

“Do you think you’ll really get a guilty verdict?” Mickey asked finally. “You’re not just fucking  
with me?”

“If I go forward with this I’ll get a guilty verdict,” he clarified.

“If?” the defense attorney questioned skeptically, raising his eyebrows high. “The king of ethics is  
considering sitting on evidence that would give him a surefire conviction?”

Ian just gnawed on his lower lip, quiet until he asked, “Did your parents know you were gay?”

“I don’t have parents,” Mickey stated gruffly.

“When you did, did they know?”

“No.”

“What would they have done if they’d found out?”

“Why are you asking me stupid fucking questions?” Mickey admonished, shaking his head in  
annoyance. “It’s too early for your bullshit, okay Ian?”

“What would they have done?” he pressed, desperately digging his fingers into Mickey’s biceps.

“If they found out? If your dad found out? Tell me.”

“Fuck off,” the brunet huffed, shaking his boyfriend’s hands off him. “Why are you doing this  
right now?”

“Tell me,” Ian pleaded. “Tell me what he would have done.”

The energy in the room shifted as repressed emotions bubbled up from under Mickey’s skin,  
boiled by the flame of his boyfriend’s distress.

“He would’ve fucking killed me, alright?” Mickey cried, pushing the now weeping man off him  
and stomping into the bathroom. Slamming the door behind him, he ground his fists into the sink  
basin and closed his eyes tightly, memories of his fag-bashing father flooding his mind as tears  
streamed down his cheeks.

Chapter Thirty-Five: The Year of the Dog

After an onslaught of kisses and apologies between two men who found themselves overwhelmed  
by dark thoughts as the day broke, Ian made his way back to his apartment where he spent hours  
lying on his couch, staring at the ceiling, wondering how a major breakthrough in the case had  
managed to make everything exceedingly more difficult. While he formulated questions for Simon  
in his mind, inquiries he wasn’t sure he would actually ask, he wished that he could go back to  
two days ago, when he’d mostly resigned himself to the fact that he was going to lose the case and  
in turn, allow the hateful pastor to walk away unscathed. It wasn’t a stellar option, but it seemed  
preferable to outing a scared, closeted man on the stand.

“Let’s walk through this again,” Ian said to Rachel, who had appeared with homemade Chinese  
food sometime after dark. He’d remained in the same spot on the sofa for long enough that when  
he finally sat up, he was dizzy and more exhausted than he could have imagined he would be by  
simply reclining as he stressed.

“You look paler than usual,” she tsked from the kitchen, emptying rice and ginger chicken into a  
bowl that she placed on Ian’s lap. “It’s my Nǎinai’s recipe. The ultimate comfort food.”

“Thanks,” he said, shoveling a forkful into his mouth. “It’s delicious.”

She smiled and fixed a bowl for herself before joining Ian in the living room again. “We should  
wait until we’re done eating to discuss it again. There’s no use in feeding a churning stomach.”  
The lawyer nodded, happy to get lost in the succulent flavors of the Orient. “Do you cook any  
other types of cuisine?”

“A little bit of everything.”

“Any Indian?”

“Some,” she replied, narrowing her eyes. “Why?”

“I’ve been craving a good Tikka Masala for a while. I used to go to this place,” he began, cringing  
at the memory of the incredibly awkward rejection he’d endured months earlier, “but I asked out  
the straight guy who worked there and now I avoid it like the plague.”

“Because he turned out to be straight? Who cares? His loss.” she laughed. “Are you still into him  
or something?”

“What? No,” Ian replied, taken aback by the question. “I have a boyfriend.”

“So I’ve heard. I just figured you weren’t that into it.”

“Why would you think that?” he asked, insulted by the implication.

“Well, for starters, you never talk about him,” Rachel said matter-of-factly. “I get being discrete  
and keeping work separate from personal stuff, but it seems like it’s more than that. A few of the  
paralegals think he’s married.”

“Who? My boyfriend?” Ian questioned, the food nearly tumbling from his mouth at the statement.  
“I’m not dating a married man!”

“I guess that was all they could come up with how secretive you’ve been,” she told him with a  
shrug. “I wouldn’t judge you if you were.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why are you so low key?”

“Because it’s none of anybody’s business,” he answered defensively.

“Alright, alright,” she said throwing her hands up in mock surrender. “I’ll drop it.”

“Good.”

The ate in silence for a few moments before Rachel ventured to ask, “When the trial’s over are  
you going to have Mandy come back to your desk?”

“I am,” Ian said, shifting uncomfortably. He had enough on his mind and adding office politics to  
the mix was far from appealing.

“Don’t you think that’s a conflict?” she questioned, smoothing the napkin that was resting on her  
thigh.

“How so?”

“Well, because of her brother.”

Ian felt his heart pick up pace as he awaited her answer. The last thing he needed at this point in  
the trial was suspicion surrounding his relationship with Mickey. “What about him?”

The paralegal narrowed her eyes dubiously. “It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?”

“What is?” Ian croaked, as he broke out into a cold sweat. As much as he liked Rachel, he wasn’t  
sure he could trust her with matters in his private life, especially those that involved banging the  
opposing counsel.

“Her brother is the top defense attorney in the city. This isn’t going to be the last time that you end  
up in court against him.”

“Oh,” he breathed, glad that he would be dealing with general stress rather than acute. He didn’t  
have the heart to tell her that he wouldn’t be facing Mandy’s brother in the courtroom again,  
because he’d intensified the conflict all on his own. “I guess we’ll have to play it ear.”

“When you become the District Attorney you’ll have three paralegals,” she reminded him. “I hope  
that when that day comes you’ll consider me.”

“If it does, I most definitely will,” Ian assured her.

“I said ‘when’ that day comes, you said ‘if.’ You need to come to terms with the fact that it’s  
guaranteed now. Own it,” she grinned. “You’re about to prove to everyone that you’re the one.”

“If I go through with it.”

“There’s the word again. It’s ‘when,’” she corrected. “It’s when you go through with it, because  
you must go through with it. It’s unethical to find evidence like this and not use it.”

“It’s unethical to out a man on the witness stand or anywhere else. Hasn’t Simon suffered  
enough?”

“Does Tyler Parks not deserve justice?” she retorted. “Does Matthew Oliver not deserve to spend  
the life in prison? Not so long ago, that was all you cared about. You wanted Oliver anyway you  
could get him.”

“I didn’t think it would be this way,” he muttered, scratching the back of his head dejectedly.

“Beggers can’t be choosers, right? We don’t get to order things in gift-wrapped packages with big  
red bows. You asked for it, and you got it and that’s it,” she said plainly. “Besides, Simon could  
be an accomplice, or worse.”

“He’s not,” Ian stated, shaking his head as if he couldn’t bear the thought. “There’s no way.”

“Maybe not an accomplice, but I’m certain complicit. Isn’t that just as bad?” Rachel reasoned,  
wiping her mouth and placing the napkin in her empty bowl.

“He’s not.”

“What proof do you have that he isn’t?” she pushed. “He was at the apartment when Matthew  
came home and burned his clothes. There’s no way he’d miss that. He knows what his dad did  
and didn’t report it.”

Without delay, Ian picked his phone up from the store and scrolled to the photo he took of one of  
the pages in Tyler’s Bible that he stuck in his mind. “Let the morning bring me word of your  
unfailing love, for I have put my trust in you. Show me the way I should go, for to you I entrust  
my life. -Psalm 143:8 and beside it, ‘Promise that you’ll marry me, that we’ll run away one day.’”

“I never said he wasn’t romantic or that he didn’t love him. I just said he was complicit.”

“How could he be complicit if he loved him? Why wouldn’t he point his finger at the monster  
who tore the love of his life away?”

“Not everything is black and white, Ian. It’s not that simple.”

“There’s right and wrong,” he disagreed. “Covering for your father when he kills your lover is  
wrong.”

“What about covering evidence in a criminal trial because you don’t want to expose a man’s  
sexuality. What’s that?” she challenged.

“Complicated.”

She let out a wry laugh and shook her head. “But the fear isn’t? I’m sure he was terrified.”

“You’re all over the place,” he chided. “You just went from him being involved to cowering in  
the corner.”

“I’m just saying we can’t rule anything out and it’s really not our place to judge. Do I think he was  
involved?” she shrugged. “Probably. Do I believe at the very least he was complicit? Absolutely.  
Do you want to hear what I’m 100% positive about?”

“I’m sure I’m about to” Ian said, placing his bowl on the coffee table.

“You are. You should have recused yourself from the start. You’ve been way too emotionally  
invested in this case. From hating Matthew to canonizing Simon, you’re a mess.”

“My boyfriend tells me the same thing. I mean, not about Simon, he doesn’t know the details, but  
he tells me I’m biased,” he admitted. “I don’t know why this one hit me more than others. I’ve  
prosecuted the scum of the Earth, but I could always see past my feelings. I feel like I walked into  
this blind.”

“With rage,” she corrected, “you walked into it blind with rage, and you know what?”

“Hmm?”

“It made you a ferocious, rabid dog who tore your teeth into everything and got down the the  
bones of it all. It should have been negative that you were filled with so much anger, but you  
lucked out.”

“How so?” he asked, feeling anything but lucky.

“It’s the year of the dog,” Rachel stated. “This is yours. You need to take it.”

“I don’t want it.”

“It’s not a choice. It’s part of your job.”

A catalog of conversations that he’d had with Mickey about ethics in being a defense attorney  
scrolled through his thoughts. Every point his boyfriend had made, that he’d contended, was  
precisely the way he needed to approach the remainder of the trial, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever  
found himself in a more humbling moment. It had been too easy for Ian to make a determination  
that Mickey’s choice to defend Matthew Oliver was wrong and that his position prosecuting the  
pastor was virtuous. It just so happened that in the end, the only person who would be ruining a  
life, other than the monster Matthew, was him.

For months, he’d asked his boyfriend how he slept at night, a backhanded insult meant to place  
Mickey in a morally inferior position, as if he couldn’t sink to his level and defend slime-balls.  
Ironically, the way the case had unfolded had him wondering how he was going to look in the  
mirror and be proud of who he saw. Everything was much more complicated than he’d ever  
imagined it would be, and yet, so simple. He had the motive, the weapon, and the murderer. When  
it came down to it, he had the win, if he could muster the resolve to show that his bite was just as  
fierce as his bark.

“It’s rough,” she emphasized, resting her hand on his. “I know it’s rough.”

“Ruff, ruff,” he said meekly, wishing he’d never been thrown the bone.

Chapter Thirty-Six: Take a Stand

Mickey couldn’t help but think that Ian was stalling when he called two of Faith Redeemer’s  
teachers to the stand on Monday and Tuesday, instead of Simon. It was the logical next step for  
Matthew’s son to follow his mother, but for some reason his boyfriend had chosen to veer off  
course. The motivation behind the prosecutor’s shift was revealed on Wednesday morning when  
Joshua informed Mickey that a piece indispensable evidence was being admitted in the interest of  
justice.

“Judge McDunough streamlined this shit without discovery?” the defense attorney questioned,  
screwing down his eyebrows.

“Yup,” Joshua confirmed. “No doubt it’s major. We can seek an adjournment to prepare our reply  
if we’re completely spanked.”

“He must’ve found something on Saturday and had to have it authenticated,” Mickey muttered,  
pressing his thumb and forefinger into his eye creases as they walked the long hallway towards the  
courtroom.

“Where did you come up with that timeline?” Joshua asked suspiciously, dropping his voice down  
until it was nearly inaudible. “Is Mandy giving you that low low?”

“What? No,” he scoffed, shaking his head, while silently admonishing himself for slipping up. “It  
was an educated guess, dumbass.”

Pushing open the oversized mahogany doors, the first thing Mickey noticed as he entered the  
room was that his boyfriend looked like he was about to projectile vomit all over the hunter green  
carpet. Though he thought he’d taken the brunt of Ian’s nervous energy the night before in the  
bedroom, it seemed he still had a fair amount stored up. It was difficult to see him so distraught  
and know there was nothing he could do about it but wait for it all to be over, and he couldn’t wait  
until it was. While they’d talked a bit about the case, they mostly avoided the topic, which made it  
even more of an invasive elephant in the room. It was unnerving to share high levels of physical  
and emotional intimacy, while not being able to talk about the day-to-day of their jobs.

By the time the judge called the court to order, Mickey could feel his palms begin to sweat as if  
Ian had somehow transferred some of his stress via osmosis as they cuddled in bed together just  
hours ago. Whatever Ian was planning was clearly taking a toll on him and not being privy to the  
move worried Mickey not only as his boyfriend, but as the opposing counselor in the case he still  
wanted to win. Though it was easy to see that Ian had been shaken by what he’d discovered, it  
was still in the back of Mickey’s mind not to let it distract him too much. He longed for the day  
when they could both fully drop their guards.

“Brace yourself,” Mickey told Matthew when Simon was sworn in on the stand.

“What do you mean ‘brace’ myself?” the older man asked with a scowl.

“He delayed calling him for two days. There was a reason. So,” he looked the pastor dead in his  
grey eyes, “brace yourself.”

“For the record, please state your name and relation to the defendant,” Ian began. To the lay-listener,   
his voice sounded strong and steady, but Mickey was able to identify the slight  
undulations that reflected the pressure he felt on his shoulders.

“Simon Matthew Oliver. Matthew Oliver’s son,” he answered, glancing towards his father, who  
was staring back at him.

“Soften your gaze,” Mickey directed, nudging Matthew gently with his elbow. “If you come off  
too intense the jury will see it as threatening.”

“I’m looking at my child,” the pastor whispered back harshly. “You told me to pay more attention  
to my wife, but I can’t focus on my son?”

“Focus less intensely. You look like a dick.”

“You tell me that everyday.”

“I’m nothing if not consistent,” he shot back, shushing his client when he opened his mouth to  
respond.

“Please tell me a little bit about the nature of your relationship with Tyler Parks,” Ian said  
tentatively, as if he regretted the prompt as soon as it escaped his lips.

“Tyler and I grew up together. We met when we were, like, five I guess. I think that’s when Ms.  
Parks joined the church,” he looked towards Tyler’s mother, who had a wad of tissues over her  
nose, just as she had over the entirety of the trial thus far. “We went through grade school, middle  
school and high school together and both ended up teaching at Faith Redeemer.”

“Would you say that you had a close relationship?”

Alarm bells wailed in Mickey’s ears as a steady chant of ‘holy shit’ merged with his heartbeat  
while the realization of the angle Ian was taking shocked his system. Suddenly, the invasive  
questions the redhead had asked about his father's potential reaction to learning he was gay made  
much more sense.

“Yes. We grew up together,” Simon replied firmly. “So it’s natural that we would remain close.”

“How would you define ‘close?’” Ian asked, with his fists balled into tight, white ball.

“Objection, relevance,” Mickey interjected, earning him a perplexed look from the judge.

“Overruled,” he ruled, turning his attention towards the nervous man sitting beside him.

“I don’t know. We talked about stuff, spent time together...” he answered.

“And you were together on the night of Saturday April 15th, correct?”

“Yes.”

“What were you doing?”

“Every Saturday night a bunch of the teachers set up our classrooms, talk about lesson plans,  
things like that. Sometimes we’ll order pizzas and hang out in the teachers’ lounge. Most of the  
teachers were tired from the retreat that weekend so they didn’t spend much time at the church. I  
didn’t go on the retreat and neither did Tyler so we just did the usual Saturday night thing.”

“Why didn’t you attend the retreat?”

“My mother was sick and I wanted to make sure she had someone available to care for her.”

“Why didn’t Tyler?”

“Objection, hearsay,” Mickey interrupted.

“Sustained,” Judge McDunough stated, giving a look of warning to Ian, who nervously  
straightened out his pants.

“What time did you arrive at FREC on Saturday April 15th?”

“Around 5:00pm.”

“Was that typical?”

“Yes.”

“How long did you spend on preparation on that particular night?”

“About an hour and a half,” Simon replied.

“And once those preparations were complete what did you do?”

“We went into the teacher’s lounge to eat dinner.”

“Did you order a pizza?”

“No.”

“What did you eat for dinner?”

“I didn’t actually eat dinner. I received a call from my mother asking me to come home so I could  
help her to the shower.”

“According to phone records, that call was received at 6:52pm. Does that sound correct?”

“Yes.”

“And did you leave immediately?”

“I did.”

“What would you have eaten if you hadn’t been called home?”

“Objection. Relevance. Does he want to know the last time he took a shit too?” Mickey asked,  
exasperated by the build up. He needed Ian to rip the goddamn band-aid off, because the suspense  
was making his body quake.

“Counselor,” Judge McDunough chided. “Overruled.”

“I don’t actually want to know that,” Ian replied, shooting Mickey a look that was equal parts  
amusement and condemnation. “Just what he would have eaten for dinner.”

“Tyler made dinner for himself a few nights before and he brought in leftovers. Enough for him  
and for me. I think it was brown rice, spinach and chicken,” the man answered dutifully.

“Did he bring food for you often?”

“Objection. Relevance,” Mickey interjected.

“Sustained,” Judge McDunough states, tapping his wrist to indicate that he was aware Ian was  
moving at the rate of molasses.

“Describe where the teacher’s lounge is in relation to your father’s office.”

“A few doors down. I think two,” he answered compliantly.

“And did you hear or see anyone in the building when you headed to the lounge to heat up your  
dinner?”

Simon shook his head. “No. We were talking, so I wasn’t paying much attention, but I believe we  
were the only people in the building.”

Ian nodded, biting his bottom lip thoughtfully. “Would you say that level of privacy allowed you  
to be more intimate with Tyler?”

“I don’t,” Simon began, very obviously shocked by the straightforward question, “I don’t know  
what you’re getting at.”

“Mr. Oliver, with all due respect, you don’t need to know where the questions are headed, you  
just need to answer them honestly,” Judge McDunough explained, “remembering that you took an  
oath and falsehoods or omissions will be considered perjury and prosecuted within the fullest  
extent of the law.”

Simon nodded, shifting nervously in his seat. “Being alone allowed more intimacy.”  
Ian momentarily turned away from the jury, in what appeared to be an attempt to steel himself for  
the next question. “In what way?”

“Speaking more freely about things, I guess,” the witness mumbled, wiping beads of sweat from  
his brow.

“Say something,” Matthew demanded, his hot breath fanning Mickey’s ear. “Make him stop.”

“Have you caught the objections I’m throwing left and right?” Mickey whispered back.

“Well, keep doing it.”

“I can only object when there are grounds for objections,” he told his client, who looked to be  
shifting from panic to anger. “Chill the fuck out, alright? The jury is watching you shit yourself.  
Do you want me to focus on your meltdown or what they’re saying?”

Matthew sunk back in his chair and crossed his arms, as the heat of his agitation radiated from him  
like a furnace.

“Would those type of things include the complexity of your relationship?” Ian asked, earning him  
an immediate ‘objection’ from Mickey.

“Leading,” the defense attorney stated, clenching his jaw. A wave of nausea washed over him as  
he imagined it was him sitting on the stand, being outed in front of his homophobic father. Every  
cell in his body was screaming for Ian to stop, but he made damn sure his mouth didn’t.

“Sustained.”

“Your Honor,” Ian began, reaching for items in an opaque plastic bag sitting on the table in front  
of him, “may I approach the witness with Exhibits G and H?”

“You may.”

“Mr. Oliver,” he said as he placed two Bibles in front of the shaking man on the stand, “I’m  
handing you Exhibit G and Exhibit H for identification. Do these two items look familiar to you?  
Feel free to leaf through them.”

Mickey watched any color that had remained on Simon’s cheeks drain from them rapidly, leaving  
him sallow and drawn. Trembling fingers tentatively turned pages in the books he’d grown up  
holding.

“Begin with Exhibit G. Can you identify this item?”

“Yes, it’s my Bible,” he replied, swallowing hard as he looked down at the book before him.

“And Exhibit H?”

“It’s Tyler’s Bible,” Simon said, his voice barely audible.

“Tyler Parks’ Bible?” Ian clarified, earning a nod from the witness. “I need you to confirm with  
words, please.”

“Yes. Tyler Parks’ Bible.” The way the name fell painfully from his lips had Mickey breathless.

“There are notations beside various passages in each of the Bibles,” the prosecutor continued, “Do  
you see these notations?”

“I do.”

“Can you identify the handwriting in State Exhibit G, the Bible you recognized as your own?”

“Yes.”

“Who does the handwriting belong to?”

He took a moment to stare down at the script, instinctively tracing his fingertips over it. “Tyler  
Parks.”

“And the handwriting in Tyler Parks’ Bible, State Exhibit H, can you identify that handwriting?”

“Yes.”

“Who’s handwriting is it?”

“Mine.”

“Why is Tyler Parks’ Bible rife with your handwriting and vice versa?”

“Can I plead the Fifth Amendment?” Simon asked Judge McDunough, his eyes pleading for  
mercy.

“Only if the answer will implicate you in any type of criminal activity,” the judge answered as  
delicately as possible, his sympathy for the young man evident.

“There’s nothing criminal in those words,” Ian told the witness emphatically.

“Objection,” Mickey called, the taste of bile coating his mouth. “Come on!”

“You’re out of order, Counselor,” the judge warned the prosecutor. “Keep your opinions to  
yourself.”

“I’m sorry, Your Honor,” Ian apologized, but it was obvious from the intensity on his face that he  
wasn’t. “Mr. Oliver, I’ll repeat the question, why is Tyler Parks’ Bible rife with your handwriting  
and vice versa?”

“We wrote notes to each other in Middle School and just kind of kept doing it,” Simon answered,  
looking down at his hands.

“Can you describe the nature of these notes?”

“I don’t understand the question.”

“Would you say the notes were romantic in nature?”

“Objection, leading,” Mickey sighed.

“Overruled.”

“This is absolutely absurd,” Matthew growled at Mickey, who waved his hand in an attempt to  
stave him off.

“Yes,” Simon finally answered. Mickey watched him shrink on the stand as his shoulders  
hunched and his neck dropped.

“Was your relationship with Tyler Parks romantic in nature?”

“Yes.”

“He’s lying. The faggot’s pressuring him and he’s lying,” Matthew told Mickey, absolutely frantic  
by the display in front of him.

“Was your relationship with Tyler Parks romantic in nature at the time of his murder?” Ian  
questioned.

“Yes.”

“On the night of Saturday April 15, 2018, when you assumed you were alone in the church, did  
that level of privacy allow you to be more intimate with Tyler?”

“Objection, badgering.”

“Counselor?” Judge McDunough asked Ian.

“The question is repetitive but only because we obtained new information that would clarify the  
answer,” the prosecutor replied.

“Overruled,” the judge decided, glancing towards Mickey before turning to Simon. “Please  
answer the question.”

“Yes.”

“In what ways?”

“I guess we kind of kissed and stuff. Things we do when we’re alone,” he said, closing his eyes as  
streams of shame poured down his cheeks.

“Is it possible that somebody could have walked by the lounge and witnessed these displays of  
affection without you noticing their presence?”

“Yes.”

Out of the side of his eyes, Mickey caught sight of several jurors shaking their heads sadly at the  
admission and the state of the man making it.

“Did you attempt to call your mother, Sara Oliver, from a landline in First Redeemer before she  
contacted you on the evening of Saturday April 15?”

“No.”

“There was a phone call made from Faith Redeemer Church at 6:43pm to Sara Oliver’s cell  
phone. Are you confirming that you did not make this call in an effort to check up on your  
mother’s condition?”

“I didn’t make that call,” Simon answered firmly, wiping a tear from his eye. He muttered a ‘thank  
you’ when Ian handed him a box of tissues.

“You told Detective Mavanelli in your interview on Tuesday April 18 that you did not recall  
making the call, but you are able to answer more definitively now? That you unequivocally did  
not make that call?”

“Yes.”

“Yes you’re able to answer more definitively?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you able to answer more definitively now than you were on Tuesday April 18?” Ian  
pressed.

“I barely remembered my name at that time. I was too sad to think. Maybe I still am. He’s gone.  
Things never stopped spinning. Everything’s still out of control,” Simon stated sadly, dropping his  
face into his hand and shaking his head. “He slowed everything down. He always slowed  
everything down for me.”

“What do you mean?” the prosecutor pushed, garnering a near silent ‘stop’ from his boyfriend,  
who had heard enough.

The sound of sniffles behind him, almost prompted Mickey to turn around so he could see Sara  
cry, but he thought better of it, knowing it would draw too much attention.

“I started spinning when the world stopped,” he bawled. “It stopped that night and I’ve been  
spinning ever since.”

“Because you loved him,” Ian concluded, a statement rather than a question.

“Love him,” Simon corrected, between his wails. “He’s gone but that doesn’t mean I stopped,  
only the Earth did.”

“He’s sick and I intend to get him the help he needs,” Matthew told Mickey, as if the statement  
would somehow cause comfort to the attorney, who was gritting his teeth with anger.

“Do you believe...” Ian began, but was interrupted by Mickey’s cry of ‘objection.’

“Badgering, give the kid a fucking break, alright? He obviously needs a break.”

Judge McDunough nodded his head. “We’ll take a fifteen minute recess before reconvene.”  
Ian glanced back at Mickey as if he was looking for confirmation on his boyfriend’s face that it  
was over. When the brunet very purposely bit his lip and widened his eyes, the prosecutor nodded  
and said, “No further questions, Your Honor.”

“Then we’re adjourned for the day,” Judge McDunough decided. Though he said ‘thank you’ at  
the end of each session, he seemed to make sure by the way he turned his head, that the still  
sobbing Simon knew that day it was intended for him.

Not able to stand another moment breathing in the stifling air of the courtroom, Mickey peeled out,  
heading into the frigid November afternoon to inhale the soothing smoke of a cigarette. Just as he  
always did, he ignored Ian, who exited the courthouse a handful of moments after him. Though he  
didn’t give him any attention, he could see that the confident lawyer who had just made an  
appearance before the witness stand had vanished, leaving only a dejected man with the affect of a  
guilty puppy.

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Smile For Me

An incessant knocking on his apartment door roused Ian from the stupor of sadness and vodka  
he’d been in since court earlier that afternoon. Regardless of how many shots he’d taken, he  
wasn’t able to wash the sound of Simon’s cries on the stand from his mind. Throwing his legs  
over the side of the couch, he rose to his feet, wobbling like a newborn deer for a moment while  
he got his bearings. “I’m coming,” he yelled, aggravated by the visitor’s impatience. As soon as he  
swung open the door, his body was thrown back against the wall of the entry and enshrouded by  
another, hungry lips kissing him like he was the personification of satiation.

“That fucking sucked,” Ian breathed, as Mickey rested his palms on his cheeks and gazed into his  
troubled green eyes.

“It did,” he agreed, nodding as if he understood the struggle. “It sucked but you didn’t. You were  
unbelievable. You did what you had to do and you did it well.” Fat tears rolled over the defense  
attorney’s fingers and puddled in the creases as he continued to hold his boyfriend’s wet face.

“It felt horrible, every single minute of it was horrible,” Ian sniffled, “I didn’t want to do it. I  
thought about not using the Bibles, pretending I’d never found them and just moving forward  
towards the loss.”

“You couldn’t do that. You know you couldn’t do that, that’s why you didn’t. You did what you  
had to do,” he repeated, kicking the door closed behind them without breaking their touch.

“I went too hard,” Ian said sullenly. “I could’ve gotten the point across in less questions. I felt like  
I trapped him.”

“You didn’t,” Mickey assured him. “You were fair, patient.”

“There was nothing fair about what I did,” Ian disagreed with a sigh, shaking free so he could  
make his way back to his prone position on the couch.

“Not happening,” Mickey chided, sitting down on the sofa with his legs spread wide enough to  
allow Ian space to settle in between them, his back resting on his boyfriend’s chest

The strong, steadying arms wrapping him up, allowed Ian to take his first cleansing breath of the  
day; a futile attempt to feel better about the incomprehensible amount of pain he’d caused.

“What you did was more than fair,” Mickey stated. “You laid the groundwork to get Tyler the  
justice he deserves. You spoke for someone who couldn’t speak for himself. What’s more fair  
than that?”

“Allowing a man to make his own decisions about the level of transparency he wants to have  
regarding his sexuality,” Ian offered. “That would’ve been more fair.”

“It was unavoidable. You had nothing else to get the conviction.”

“You basically ‘objected’ and called me an asshole,” Ian reminded him.

“No I didn’t. I told you the kid needed a break,” his boyfriend tsked, pressing a tender kiss against  
his cheek.

“Which implied I was an insensitive asshole,” the redhead pouted, laughing in spite of himself  
when full lips turned the peck of the previous moment into a sloppy raspberry.

“You were rounding out the narrative, you had to do it and I was doing my job,” Mickey  
explained. “We were both doing our jobs.”

“Our jobs blow.”

“Sometimes, but we’re good at them.”

“That doesn’t feel like any sort of consolation.”

“It would if you were doing the grunt work at a podunk firm, pushing papers. You’d be wishing  
you were an ADA who was good at his job.”

“Probably,” Ian confessed with a sigh.

They sat in silence, Ian’s mind still fuzzy from the liquor, while his heart ached slightly less than it  
had been before Mickey showed up at his door.

“When I objected, it was for me, not for Simon,” Mickey admitted, the confession taking Ian by  
surprise.

“What do you mean?” he asked, sitting up so he was facing his boyfriend, knees drawn to his  
chest so he could still fit into the space.

“I couldn’t take it anymore. It’s been a while since I let a case effect me or since I’ve taken it  
personally, I guess. While Simon was up there, talking about his feeling for Tyler, in front of his  
piece of shit father, it was,” Mickey paused, searching for the right word, “overwhelming, brave,  
and something I don’t think I would’ve ever had the guts to do.”

“I don’t believe that,” Ian said, shaking his head. “You’re the bravest person I know.”

“Simon Oliver is the bravest person you know,” Mickey corrected.

“If he was given the choice he wouldn’t have done what he did today,” Ian reasoned.

“But he did it. I probably would’ve perjured myself.”

“Your dad was that scary?”

Mickey nodded. “Think a rougher, nastier, Matthew Oliver.”

“I can’t imagine anyone nastier than Matthew Oliver.”

“Then you’re lucky.”

“I am.”

“I’m worried about the kid,” Mickey began, “I wish the prick wasn’t out on bail...”

“He won’t be out for much longer,” he sighed, “but I am too. He’d have to be really fucking  
stupid to do anything to him now.”

“Emotional shit hurts worse than the physical, and you can’t see it,” the brunet reminded him,  
crinkling his nose uncomfortably and nudging his knuckle against his nose.

Ian just nodded, blessed to not be familiar with either, but heartbroken that Mickey was. It was no  
wonder that his boyfriend had protected himself from the feelings that could have been triggering  
in his line of work. He regretted every insensitive jab he’d thrown at Mickey in regards to his job  
and each time he’d questioned him. Ian had never imagined that there could be so much  
complexity behind the reasons for finding oneself in a certain career and for impressions towards  
it.

“I can’t believe you can defend assholes like Matthew Oliver,” Ian said.

“Are we really doing this again, Gallagher?” Mickey questioned with a groan.

“Wait,” he urged, grabbing Mickey’s hands. “I can’t believe after all you’ve been through you  
actually have the capacity to provide scum bags with a proper defense. It just shows how strong  
you are. They’re entitled to representation and you provide it. Shit wouldn’t work without people  
like you willing to do it.”

“Don’t make me into some White Knight, man,” Mickey laughed. “The money’s good.”

“But that’s not why you went into it in the first place,” he reminded him. “You told me about the  
kids. You wanted to make a change.”

“Yeah, and I didn’t.”

“You don’t know that for sure and at least you tried. I wouldn’t have even tried. That makes me  
the problem, not you.”

“Mmm, is that right?” Mickey asked, giving Ian a flirty grin as he yanked his wrists, an indication  
that he should climb on top of him. Which he did, directly into a traveling hands, swirling tongues,  
passionate kiss. “I like it when you recognize this greatness, baby,” he teased, giving Ian’s ass a  
playful spank.

“Baby?” he laughed, both amused and turned on by the term of endearment. “What did you do  
with my boyfriend?”

“What did you do with mine?” he retorted, slotting their mouths together again.

Pulling back once they were both breathless, Ian rested a palm on Mickey’s scruffy cheek and  
gazed into his ocean blue eyes. “You know, I’ve complained about how difficult it is not being  
able to be with you in public, but in a parallel universe we could have been Tyler and Simon, dealt  
with those difficulties. Real danger. What if their outcome was ours?” He felt the air escape his  
lungs at even the thought of losing Mickey. It seemed unfathomable, and impossibly cruel, that  
Tyler and Simon had spent nineteen years writing a love story that would be forced to an end in a  
night because of one man’s hatred.

“I can’t think about that,” Mickey said, gnawing on his bottom lip. “It makes any time we wasted  
not being together seem fucking dumb.”

“Ethics be damned,” Ian laughed.

“Fuck ethics. It’s unethical to keep our bodies apart, they were made for each other,” he crooned,  
sliding his hand under Ian’s shirt and over his abs. “It would go against the will of the universe.”

“What about us?” he ventured, as his boyfriend busied his mouth licking and sucking on the skin  
of his neck. “Do you think we were?” Though Ian had been having very intense feelings for  
Mickey for a while, he’d been cautious of saying too much and potentially freaking the reformed  
player out.

“Hmm?” the brunet hummed, moving his hands down to Ian’s ass and pulling him in closer. “I’m  
really fucking horny.”

“I’m afraid I’ll freak you out if I tell you how I’m feeling,” Ian said, moaning as Mickey’s tongue  
dragged across his jawline and into his mouth.

“Historically, when statements start with warnings like that, they will,” he told him between  
kisses.

“I don’t want to hold back,” Ian admitted. “Not after today.”

“Alright,” Mickey conceded, pulling his mouth away abruptly. “What’s up?” He was beautiful  
with his pale cheeks flushed pink and his full lips looking exceptionally well kissed.

“I know we’ve only been together for a short period of time and much of it has been wrapped up  
in this bullshit trial,” Ian explained, wringing his hands nervously. “It’s just that, I feel really close  
to you. Maybe we’re like soldiers who go to war together, they forge a bond due to shared  
experiences. Most people just don’t understand what they’ve been through, so they rely on each  
other. We have that and, you know, more because many of those feelings are romantic in nature.”

“Fuck, you’re a wordy motherfucker,” Mickey chided without venom. “I feel like I’m listening to  
your opening statements all over again.”

“Shut up,” Ian chuckled. “I’m getting to the point.”

Mickey nodded, as he looked at the redhead expectantly.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is, that feeling Simon Oliver described today, where he said things  
stopped spinning with Tyler. That he stopped spinning....” he took a deep breath, preparing  
himself to go on, “you do that for me, you stop the spinning. You center me.”

“Better than yoga?” Mickey questioned, raising an eyebrow. “Am I your sensei now or  
something?”

“There are no senseis in yoga,” Ian laughed. “C’mon. I’m being serious.”

“You’re laughing.”

“You made me laugh.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“I’m trying to tell you something serious.”

“Do you have to keep a straight face when you tell someone you love them?” Mickey asked,  
clicking his tongue. “If you do that’s pretty fucking lame.”

“What?” Ian questioned, dumbstruck by the fact that Mickey had called out his intention.

“That’s what you’re going to say to me, right? All that lead up... it’s where you were going with  
it.”

“Yeah.”

“You can tell me that shit with a smile on your face. I think I’d like it better that way.”

“Why are you micromanaging this?”

“Why are you stalling?” Mickey shot back, pursing his lips. “Hmm?”

“I’m not.”

“Okay.”

“I love you,” Ian said, his voice wavering at the admission.

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Yeah,” Mickey nodded. “That’s a good thing.”

“That’s all you’re going to say?” he asked nervously.

“I don’t make big speeches like you. I get straight to the point.”

“I know.”

“You know I love you?”

“No.” Ian shook his head. “I know you get straight to the point.”

“You should know I love you, too,” Mickey told him sincerely, “because I do.”

“You do?” Ian questioned, his heart pounding in his chest as his boyfriend pulled him in close.

“I really, really do.”

And when Mickey smiled into the kiss, Ian knew it was true.

Chapter Thirty-Eight: To Deal With the Devil

The last thing Mickey wanted to do was meet Matthew Oliver at Faith Redeemer before court on  
Thursday morning, but that’s precisely what he found himself doing. The pastor had requested a  
private meeting with him, and he’d obliged.

As he entered the mega-Church, Mickey couldn’t help but feel uneasy. Everything from the space  
itself to the vague scent of bleach in the air gave him the chills. It was particularly unnerving to  
walk past the teacher’s lounge, as he made his way to Matthew’s office, knowing what had  
occurred there months earlier. Though he’d spent the last eight hours wrapped up in Ian’s arms,  
he’d struggled to get thoughts of Simon Oliver out of his mind. To him, Simon was the true victim  
of the crime. Sure, it was Tyler who lost his life, but the pastor’s son had lost much more. He was  
forced to live without his love, which was a crueler punishment as far as Mickey was concerned.  
Before Ian, he would have felt pity for Simon’s plight, but figured that he’d move on and find  
someone else eventually, but after him, he knew that was easier said than done. Imagining a loss  
so immense was inscrutable, and yet, not so foreign that he wasn’t able to put himself in that  
position. If he and Ian had connected earlier in life, and his father had caught them together, there  
was no doubt in Mickey’s mind that Ian would have been his Tyler, and he would have been  
sentenced to surviving him, just as Simon had. He made a mental note to ask Ian to look into  
getting the witness counseling services provided by the state, worried that his time on the stand  
could push him over the edge that he was no doubt teetering on.

If anyone told Mickey that he would be left reeling by any matter presented in the Oliver trial, he  
would have scoffed at the absurdity. From the beginning, he’d approached the case just as he had  
all his others, with the intention to do what it took to win. All it took was Ian Gallagher, Simon  
Oliver and Tyler Parks to change everything. He craved justice more than victory, a dangerous  
desire for a defense attorney.

Mickey knocked on the door of the office, turning the knob when the Televangelist called for him  
to come in.

“You should hear the sermon I’m working on,” Matthew began, grinning at Mickey as he took a  
seat in one of the chairs parallel to his own.

“Yeah, I’m not interested,” he replied with a yawn, a genuine reaction he often had around the  
bigot who endlessly sucked the oxygen from the room.

“I think it’s apropos for the circumstances,” Matthew continued, clearly ignoring the  
straightforward statement of disinterest. “The press is having a field day over the little tale Simon  
told, so I thought I should do something to combat that.”

It was then that Mickey knew he wouldn’t be able to wiggle his way out of the conversation. “The  
‘little tale’ he told?” the lawyer questioned, sniffing uncomfortably. “It seemed like an epic  
confession to me.”

“Perhaps it would be if it was true, but Simon has always been a fan of fiction.”

Narrowing his eyes and leaning forward, Mickey asked, “What benefit would he derive from  
lying? Usually people don’t lie so they can complicate their own life.”

“I’m not sure,” he shrugged easily. “Maybe he thought he’d gain favor with the prosecutor, who’s  
admitted in the press that he’s a homosexual.”

“That...” Mickey sighed, shaking his head. “Makes no sense. Listen,” he began with a click of the  
tongue. I don’t know if you’re too delusional to recognize this, but that testimony yesterday ended  
you. I can still work the Salvatore Liando angle, and I will, but you need to come to terms with the  
fact that you are facing the very real threat of some serious prison time.”

“I have faith that you’ll fix this. You’ll cross-examine Simon and force him to admit he was lying,  
or coerced, whichever.”

“I’m not putting Simon back on the stand. The more he talks, the more fucked you are

“Yes certainly are putting him back on the stand,” Matthew disagreed. “You work for me and I  
want him cross-examined.”

“That’s not how shit works.”

The pastor raised his eyebrows in surprise. “And how does it work?”

“It works with you being real with me so I can try to get you as little time as possible. The more I  
know, the better I’ll be able to combat the rest of the shit the prosecutor’s going to bring up.”

“What kind of... stuff?” he asked, cringing to let Mickey know he still found his language  
unsavory.

“When did you find out that Simon was gay?”

“My son isn’t gay,” Matthew scoffed.

“Is Simon not really your son?” Mickey questioned, biting his bottom lip.

“Of course he’s my son.”

“Well, dude’s gay or maybe bi. don’t know who else he was banging but he sure as fuck was  
sleeping with Tyler Parks so... how long have you known?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Matthew growled. “Tyler Parks may have been a  
faggot, but my boy is not. He was lost and confused, and that predator made him believe he was  
something he is not.”

“When you say predator you’re referring to...”

“Tyler Parks,” Matthew snarled. “He brainwashed my Simon. Clearly based on the evidence  
presented in court yesterday, he’s been messing with his mind for years. I regret having not  
recognized it sooner, but now that I know my son is unwell, I intend to get him the help he so  
desperately needs. There are camps that help men who suffer from these types of delusions. One  
in particular sponsors my Sunday morning telecasts. Simon will be there as soon as the trial is  
over.”

“My father was a lot like you,” Mickey said, unable to hold the words in his mouth the way he  
had wanted to.

“He must’ve been an extremely righteous man,” Matthew said, looking at his lawyer  
sympathetically. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“He’s not actually dead, just dead to me and it isn’t a loss at all. I’m sure Simon will think the  
same of you after he gets the therapy he ‘so desperately’ needs, which is actual therapy, not the  
conversion bullshit you’re hocking.”

“The only person who needed therapy was Tyler Parks. He was a pervert who intended to convert  
godly men into faggots. When I saw him,” he paused, biting his tongue as his face flushed  
crimson in anger.

“Attorney client privilege, man,” Mickey reminded him. “The only thing I can do with your words  
is twist them to your benefit.”

Matthew seethed as he spat his confession out. “When I walked by and caught sight of Tyler  
accosting my child in the teachers’ lounge that night, nasty lips on his as the devil himself held  
them both tight.” He shook his head in disgust at the memory. “I knew there was only one action  
to take. I thought about sacrificing Simon as well, but Sara assured me he was not a lost cause,  
that we could help him and we will. This inconvenience set us back a bit, but we’ll get him the  
help he needs.”

As Mickey sat stupefied by the confession and the venom the pastor had spewed, he found that,  
suddenly, he understood Ian’s visceral reaction towards all things Matthew Oliver. It was  
astounding that admitting to first degree murder, and implicating his wife’s involvement, were not  
the most disturbing things the Televangelist had said.

“So you called Ms. Oliver from the church, told her what you saw, and had her call Simon away,”  
he reasoned, wishing he hadn't uttered the words when the murderer nodded his confirmation. Of  
all the information he and Ian had refrained from sharing, the confession of what had actually  
happened would be, by far, the most difficult to hold back.

“The prosecution did us a favor painting Sara as an unreliable witness, because they basically  
washed away the phone call from Faith Redeemer,” Mickey stated, feeling completely numb.

“Simon testified that it wasn’t him who called, which wasn’t what he told the police a few days  
after the homicide. He was less sure and that’s good for us. It makes him less trustworthy and  
creates doubt. That doubt, Salvatore Liando, and your dumbass not taking the stand are the best  
things we have going for us right now.”

“I resent you calling me names,” Matthew bristled, glaring at his lawyer.

“I resent you being a dumbass,” he replied, standing up a buttoning his suit jacket. “You’re a  
cartoon in there with all your reactions.”

“Aren’t you going to listen to my sermon? I was going to give you a sneak peek.”

“Rip that shit up and call in sick on Sunday,” Mickey directed. “No matter how shady or clever  
you think you’re going to be, it’ll fail and you’ll end up making a spectacle of yourself. Don’t for  
one minute think that the court of public opinion doesn’t impact your trial. It does.”

“You don’t even know what it’s about,” Matthew retorted, his voice too whiny for Mickey’s  
liking.

“I don’t have to. I know you.” He glanced down at his phone and saw a text message from Ian:

Ian (8:24am): I forgot to ask you something this morning.

“Listen, I’ll see you over there,” Mickey said, opening the door.

“Hang on, I’ll walk with you,” the pastor offered, putting on his jacket. “I can give you the details  
about the sermon on the way and you can tell me your honest opinion.”

“I already told you my opinion... twice. If you walk with me I’ll end up lying down in traffic  
which will be problematic for your defense.”

“I can never tell when you’re joking,” Matthew noted as Mickey left the room.

Not bothering to reply, he texted his boyfriend back.

Mickey (8:31am): What’s up?  
Ian (8:32am): Thanksgiving is next week.  
Mickey (8:33am): What’s the question?  
Ian (8:34am): You hate a good lead in.  
Mickey (8:34am): and yet...  
Ian (8:35am): Will you come to Philly with me?  
Ian (8:35am): I just had a finger spasm trying to get that out so quickly.  
Mickey (8:36am); Damn, how do you handle the stress of being you, Gallagher?  
Ian (8:37am): Lots of sex. I feel like you’re avoiding my question.  
Mickey (8:37am): I’m not. Are there going to be banana pudding cupcakes?  
Ian (8:37am): I think she’ll make pumpkin spice or something with apple instead. Do you think  
you’ll be able to deal with the disappointment?  
Mickey (8:38am): It will be touch and go for a while, but I’ll probably make it through.  
Ian (8:39am): So you’ll come?  
Mickey (8:41am): Yeah I’ll come.  
Ian (8:41am): You will?  
Mickey (8:42am): Was this a trick question?  
Ian (8:43am): No. I’m just happy.

Though his morning had featured an exceptionally dark and heavy conversation, Mickey grinned  
when he texted back: Me too.

Chapter Thirty-Nine: It’s Oh So Quiet

Mickey and Ian boarded the train separately at Penn Station, aware that though the trial was  
nearing an end, they couldn’t afford to be spotted together. It wasn’t until they connected to the  
SEPTA regional rail line en route to Bryn Mawr, that they slid into a bench at the back of the  
cabin beside each other.

Gazing out the window at trees full of autumnal leaves, Ian admired the colonial brick homes  
tucked behind them. Intertwining his fingers with Mickey’s, he gave his hand a squeeze and  
turned his focus to the boyfriend, who was peering over his shoulder at the scenery. “It’s beautiful,  
isn’t it?”

He nodded. “It reminds me of New Haven in the fall.”

“I’d like to go.”

“To Yale?” I think that ship sailed a while ago,” Mickey teased, letting out a quiet ‘ouch’ when  
Ian dug his fingernails into the palm of his hand.

“To visit, asshole. I want to see where you went to school. I want to go to Brooklyn and get a feel  
for where you grew up…”

“You want to go chill in Bed-Stuy?” he laughed, shaking his head. “Why?”

“I just want to know you more. I want to learn everything I can learn about you,” Ian answered,  
pressing his lips gingerly onto Mickey’s puffy pout.

“You fuck me up when you look at me like that,” he whispered, kissing him back.

“Like what?”

“All dreamy and shit. You get this look in your eyes, like I don’t know,” his voice trailed off as he  
placed his palm on Ian’s cheek and patted it softly.

“Like I’m in love with you?” the redhead offered, nudging his nose against Mickey’s gently.

“Yeah, like that.”

The subsequent kiss was slow and loving, the embrace of lovesick men, who were too afflicted by  
their adoration to need a cure.

“Do you even know how gorgeous you are?” Ian breathed, lost in the depth of his lover’s eyes as  
he slid his hand higher up on the brunet’s strong thigh.

“You tell me all the time,” Mickey replied, as his boyfriend kissed the smirk off his lips.

“I can’t get over it.”

“Don’t want you to get over it,” he admitted, raking his fingers through red hair.

The soft whoosh of the train traveling on the track hummed in the air as Ian turned his head back  
towards the window. “I want that.”

“Want what?”

Ian pointed towards an impressive yeoman style house at the bank of a babbling brook. It was  
anachronistic with a stone well in the front yard and a wood plank swing hanging off a limb of a  
crimson Crabapple tree.

“A maintenance nightmare?” Mickey questioned, clicking his tongue on a smooth patch of skin  
behind the redhead’s ear.

“I hate you,” Ian chuckled, swatting him away. “I don’t know. That kind of life, I guess. A quiet  
life.”

“How are you going to have a quiet life if you never stop talking?” Mickey inquired, lifting his  
eyebrows and shrugging as his boyfriend glared at him.

“You know what I mean.”

“I do,” he nodded. “That’s how it is for me in Mexico. The city’s always moving, but when I’m  
on the beach in Puerto Peñasco, it’s like hitting the pause button.”

“That sounds nice.”

“It is. We should go over Christmas. The trial will be wrapped up and they give you a few days  
off from the rat race, don’t they?”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to have Christmas on the beach,” he began tentatively. “I want to do it  
right with presents under the tree, stockings lined up on the fireplace, snow on the windowsills.”  
“What if it doesn’t snow?”

Ian rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“I do and I’d rather drink tequila than eggnog,” Mickey told him. “That shit’s nasty.”

“I’ll drink tequila with you,” Ian promised, “in your apartment, next to your tree.”

“Why’s this so important to you anyway?”

“Because you’re important to me,” he replied, “and I want you to have more happy memories than  
shitty ones. What?” Ian asked, when Mickey licked his lips and looked down at his feet.

“Nothing.”

“It seems like something...”

“You talk too much,” Mickey admonished.

“Funny you bring that up...”

“I tell you that, like, twelve times a day.”

“Holy shit, Mick, can you let me segue?”

“Fine.”

“I fucked up,” Ian admitted, gnawing on his cheek.

“The segue?” Mickey asked, “I mean, it probably would have been alright if I hadn’t interrupted.  
You’ve had worse.”

“That’s not what I mean. That’s what I was wanted to tell you, that I fucked up.”

“Oh.”

“Do you want to know what I did?”

“Not really.”

“Not really?” he repeated, surprised.

“If you fucked some other dude, why would I want to hear about it before I go to sit at the dinner  
table with your family?”

Ian’s eyes went wide. “I didn’t fuck someone else,” he exclaimed, loud enough to garner attention  
from the few passengers riding along with them. “I would never cheat on you.”

“Your segues fucking suck then, Gallagher,” Mickey whispered harshly. “Just tell me what you  
did.”

“I told people at work that I have a boyfriend.”

“That was dumb. What’re you going to do when the trial’s over? Tell them you two broke up and  
that you randomly started dating me? You’ll look like a shady shit.”

“I know. I said I fucked up,” he reminded him with a grimace. “I think I should look for another  
job.”

Mickey laughed and narrowed his eyes when he saw that his boyfriend didn’t seem to be joking.

“You’re kidding, right? We’ll just stay low key for a while longer and everything blow over.”

“I don’t want to hide anymore. It just makes the most sense to leave the DA and start somewhere  
new.”

“It actually makes no sense at all,” Mickey disagreed. “Unless...” he began in a sing-songy voice,  
tapping the tip of Ian’s nose with the pad of his pointer finger, “you’re a self-sabotaging little  
monkey.”

“What do you mean?” he asked perplexed by the implication. “That I purposely did something so  
I’d have to leave?”

Mickey rolled his lips in and shrugged. “Seems like it.”

“That’s crazy,” Ian stated, shaking his head, but wondering if subconsciously he had. He’d spent  
his whole career working towards becoming the District Attorney, and now that the position was  
within grasp, he feared he’d wasted his time. While it was fulfilling to think of himself as an agent  
of good, he couldn’t help but feel that the scales of justice were becoming more unbalanced,  
leaving him askew as well.

“Is it though?” Mickey challenged. “You want a quiet life, right? There’s no shame in that. Just  
don’t lie to yourself trying to be someone you’re not. You’re fine the way you are.”  
Ian nodded, and stood up as the train drew to a stop. “This is us.” Still holding onto Mickey’s  
hand, he led him off the train and toward Jacob’s car.

“Is this a thing we’re going to do?” the brunet questioned, lifting his wrist to present their  
interlocked fingers. “Walk places with our hands swinging and shit, like a couple of frolicking  
fags?”

“I think so,” Ian replied, simply. “I like touching you.”

“It’s like,” he paused for a moment, “I want to give you more shit and then you say something  
cute like that and I’m just kinda standing here with my dick in my hand.”

“I’ll hold that, too,” Ian flirted, waggling his eyebrows at his boyfriend, who hid his face in his  
free hand, shook his head, and laughed.

“Well, hello there hand-holding gentlemen,” Jacob called as he pushed open the passenger side  
door of his car.

“Hey,” Ian greeted as Mickey dropped his grip. “Do you want to sit in the front or...?” he asked  
the brunet, who said a quick ‘nope’ as he climbed in the back. “Jacob, my boyfriend Mickey,  
Mick, my brother Jacob.”

“Good to meet you,” Jacob said, twisting around to shake Mickey’s hand.

“You too,” he replied.

“Make sure to put your seatbelt on,” the younger Gallagher reminded him with a grin.

Ian chuckled lightly when he looked in the rearview mirror and caught the face his boyfriend  
made before obliging.

“The kids are so excited to meet you, Mickey,” Jacob continued, “and to see their favorite uncle,”  
he added patting Ian’s knee. “Lily’s been cooking away. She got that special request for her  
famous banana pudding cupcakes and hopped on it to make a batch!”

Both redheads busted at the seams with laughter at the unimpressed look on Mickey’s face.

“He’s messing with you,” Ian promised, between giggles.

“You’re a funny guy like your brother, huh Jacob?” Mickey questioned with a click of his tongue.  
“I’m not going to lie. I find you a wee bit intimidating,” the driver admitted. “You have to face  
him in the courtroom?” he asked Ian.

“Fucking shit, Gallagher. You do got a big mouth,” Mickey decided with a crinkled nose, his  
language nearly causing Jacob to swerve off the road.

“Your sister knows. I told my brother,” Ian said easily.

“The real questions is who’s going to win?” Jacob asked.

“Your brother asks a lot of questions and you do, too,” Mickey pointed out, rendering Jacob silent  
for the rest of the short ride to his house.

As usual, the welcoming crew was in the driveway holding their handmade signs, one of which  
had a computer print out of Mickey Mouse in the center of it. Ian waved at the kids, Lily and his  
parents standing behind them, as he got out of the car. “Hey guys!” he said brightly, picking up  
Reese as she darted for him. “Reeses Pieces, this is Mickey, Mickey, my niece Reese.”

“Niece and Reese rhyme,” Luke called up to Mickey, as the attorney shook the little girl’s  
outstretched hand. “Up,” he demanded, holding his arms out, indicates that he wanted to be lifted.

“Luke,” Lily chided, as Mickey awkwardly picked the child up. “I’m sorry,” she apologized,  
giving the uncomfortable man a hug. “He heard he was meeting Mickey and he thinks you’re  
somehow related to the mouse.”

“He is my cousin, so it kinda makes sense,” the brunet replied, causing Ian’s heart to explode.  
Though he was sure he was already in love with him, Mickey had managed to take his adoration  
to the next level.

“Oh he’s cute,” Lily crooned, giving her brother-in-law a wink. “You did well.”

“That’s what my sister tells me,” Mickey informed her with a grin.

“My wife is officially melting onto the driveway,” Jacob announced.

“Let me meet who all he fuss is about,” Ian’s mother said, wrapping Mickey and Luke into a hug.

“I’ve heard so much about you, Mickey. It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too,” the brunet said as he shook Ian’s father’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Sir.”

“Call me Clayton, son,” he directed. “Any friend of Ian’s is a friend of mine.”

“Boyfriend,” his wife corrected. “Ian’s boyfriend.”

“Of course he is, but I wasn’t going to say ‘any boyfriend of Ian’s is a boyfriend of mine.’ That  
would’ve gotten my son’s goat. Wouldn’t it Ian?”

Ian laughed and nodded his head, taking Luke out of Mickey’s arms. “It would’ve.”

“Let’s get inside. The food’s all ready, Including my Grammy’s pudding cupcakes,” Lily  
announced, giving Mickey’s cheek a playfully squeeze, “I hear you’re a big ol’ fan, Sugar Plum.”  
With a grin, he turned to Ian and said, “your family has jokes, huh?”

“We’re very funny people,” Ian confirmed, looping his arm around his boyfriend’s waist as they  
walked into the house.

Though Ian could acknowledge that there was ceaseless activity and talking within the walls of  
Lily and Jacob’s house that night, it all felt quiet to him.

Chapter Forty: Watch Them Hang

It shouldn’t have ended the way it did, and the outcome had left both Mickey and Ian devastated.  
Though he’d reminded the jury in his summation that their decision would remain on their  
conscience long after the lights of the courtroom were turned down, Mickey hadn’t expected to  
sway any of them, and yet, he had. It was impossible to deny that Ian had a more difficult job  
between them. After all, the prosecutor needed to convince every member of the jury that  
Matthew Oliver was guilty beyond a reasonable doubt, while the defense only had to persuade  
one that he wasn’t for the jury to hang, and that’s what he’d done.

Ian’s closing statements had been strong. In fact, they’d been so powerful that Mickey had  
seriously doubted he’d be able to rally any sort of dissension, but he’d tried his damnedest to do so  
anyway. Matthew’s confession hadn’t changed Mickey’s approach. He’d known other clients  
were guilty before they’d even stood trial. It was his job to defend them, and that’s what he’d  
done. Still, none of his past cases had impacted him the way the Oliver case had. It was too  
surface to think that it was Ian who prompted that change, especially when the pernicious pastor  
reminded him so much of his father.

Mickey’s first concern when they’d announced officially that the jury was hung was Simon  
Oliver. He wondered if it was somehow betraying Ian to be more worried about a man he didn’t  
know than the loss his own boyfriend had to cope with. It hadn’t been a secret that Ian was rabid  
for the win. From the start, his chief priority was having Matthew Oliver pay, whether or not he’d  
murdered Tyler Parks. To Ian, the Televangelist was guilty of much more than homicide; he was a  
walking, talking hate crime. When it came down to it, his boyfriend could take care of himself. As  
compelled as he was to protect Ian, and support him emotionally, he knew that the redhead  
wanted him more than he needed him. Simon, on the other hand, necessitated greater care.  
Perhaps it was the fucked up camaraderie he felt with Simon that had him thinking of the true  
victim’s future, or his rejuvenated belief that he had the capacity to set someone else’s life on  
track, a hope that reflected the reason he got into law in the first place. Either way, the hung jury  
lead to a mistrial which meant, until the State filed charges against Matthew again, the monster  
would roam free. The thought of Simon being forced to attend a conversion camp that would  
attempt to brainwash him into thinking what he had with Tyler was a mistake or delusion, was too  
much for Mickey to bear. So, he’d crossed a multitude of lines and asked Simon to come to his  
office the day after the non-verdict was read.

“Simon’s here, Mick,” Joshua informed him, sullenly as he peeked in the door.

“Are you my secretary now?” Mickey asked, earning an eye roll from the paralegal.

“I decided to come in and announce him in hopes that I could talk you out of this,” he replied,  
honestly. “Think of every shitty idea you’ve ever had and reflect on the fact that this is worse,  
please.”

“It’s only a shitty idea if you’re a shitty person,” he shot back with a mega-watt grin. “See what I  
did there?”

“I do,” Joshua confirmed with a sigh. “The kid’s going to run back to his father and tell him what  
you’re offering and then you’re going to be up shit’s creek without a paddle.”

“You’re my paddle,” Mickey said. “So jump in motherfucker, shit’s about to get deep.”

“I’ll send him in, but I’m not staying.”

“Nobody asked you to.”

Joshua shook his head and disappeared from the doorway, only to guide Simon Oliver through it a  
moment later and vanish again.

“Thanks for coming.” Mickey stood up from his chair to shake the nervous man’s hand.

“Am I in some sort of trouble?” Simon questioned, when the lawyer gestured for him to take a  
seat.

“A lot of it, actually, but not with me,” he promised. “I hope I can be candid with you.”

The younger man nodded as he bit the skin around his nail-bed. “You can be.”

“Yesterday didn’t go well,” Mickey admitted. “It didn’t shake down the way I hoped it would.”

“But it was better than it could have been, right? I mean, it wasn’t acquittal, but a mistrial buys  
you guys more time...”

Shaking his head and looking Simon dead in the eye, the defense attorney told him, “The only  
time he deserves is in prison in a cell next to my dad’s.”

Astonished by the statement, the pastor’s son stared at Mickey, breathlessly.

“My father’s a lot like yours, hateful homophobic, and homicidal,” he continued, “and I grew up  
like you, gay and scared to death of him.”

“You’re gay?” Simon asked. “My father would have never hired you if he knew.”

“Your father’s a sack of shit. Did you pack your bags for conversion camp yet?”

As his fingers made their way back to his mouth, Simon nodded. “I leave tomorrow morning.”

“They’ll shame you, but they’ll never change you. You know that, right? You are who you are  
and there’s nothing wrong with that person.”

“I can’t just not go,” Simon replied softly. “That’s not the way my life works. I don’t disobey  
him.”

“I get it. Believe me. You’re afraid of him. He killed your boyfriend and one day, when he  
realizes you’ll never be who he wants you to be, he’ll kill you, too.”

“Why are you telling me all this like any of it makes a difference?” Simon asked with a wry laugh.  
“Like it’s any better for me now that the world knows, or at least should know, what he’s capable  
of. He was bad before but he’ll be worse now. You telling me that doesn’t make anything easier.”

“But what if I can make things easier?”

Simon narrowed his eyes dubiously at the lawyer, who opened a file that was sitting on his desk  
and placed it in front of him.

“Your father hasn’t completed his payments for my services yet, but to date, he’s paid me  
$62,000. I moved that money to an off-shore account and then transferred it to another in your  
name. Here’s the information you’ll need to access that account,” he explained, tapping on the  
corner of a paper. “This is a plane ticket to Puerto Peñasco, Mexico. I own a place right on the  
beach. It’s fucking beautiful. You can stay there until you get on your feet. My friend Xavier will  
pick you up from the airport and get you settled in. He knows everyone in town. You won’t be  
lonely.”

“What are you talking about?” Simon cried, shaking his head vehemently. “I can’t just run away  
to Mexico.”

“Why?” Mickey demanded. “What do you have here? Your monster of a father and complicit  
mother? Fuck that. Yes you can run the fuck away and live an actual life. Why the hell would you  
stay?”

“Because he’s here,” Simon cried. “Tyler. All of my memories of him are here.”

“And you think they’ll all disappear when you do?” He laughed sardonically. “C’mon, man. Do I  
need to say some corny ass shit like he lives in your heart? Or he’s always with you because you  
love him?”

“You just did,” Simon pointed out with a lopsided grin.

Mickey tsked and shrugged his shoulders, smiling back at him. “You have a passport from all the  
missionary work you did, correct?”

The younger man nodded.

“Good. Go home, grab your bags, and come back here as soon as you can. Joshua will drive you  
to the airport.”

“I need our Bibles.”

“I’ll get them to you,” Mickey promised.

“It will kill any case they have against my dad.”

“But he won’t be able to kill you.”

“What are you doing this for me?” Simon asked, taking the folder into his hands.

“Because I can.”

As he watched Simon exit his office and walk toward his new life, his mind shifted to Ian.  
Though his boyfriend was strong and capable, he was aware that he still needed support. To say  
the redhead had lost it after the hung jury was announced, was an understatement. He had kept it  
together in the courtroom, but as soon as he’d arrived at Mickey’s apartment he turned into a  
tornado of emotions. Over and over again he’d screamed that he was done, and Mickey didn’t  
have the heart to tell Ian that he’d known he was done long before he’d been willing to admit it.  
His bias had blinded him and though he’d gotten lucky that he was right, one day he wouldn’t be.  
While Matthew was a repulsive excuse for a human, Mickey was realistic enough to know that  
files for worse people would come across his desk and he feared the day they would land on Ian’s  
too. There was nothing wrong with passion, it was only when it occluded or perverted reason that  
it became dangerous and when Ian had to.

Ian (3:43pm): Did you talk to him?  
Mickey (4:11pm): Just did.  
Ian (4:12pm): And........?  
Mickey (4:15pm): He’s leaving.  
Ian (4:17pm): This makes it all worth it. You saved his life. Literally, figuratively, or both.  
Mickey (4:18pm): Don’t be dramatic.  
Ian (4:18pm): Don’t be obtuse.  
Mickey (4:19pm): What are you doing?  
Ian (4:19pm): Lying here in awe of how amazing you are.  
Mickey (4:19pm): Well stop being a tool and meet me at 117 Herzl Street.  
Ian (4:21pm): What’s there?  
Mickey (4:21pm): A couple of beers.  
Ian (4:22pm): Celebrating or drowning our sorrows?  
Mickey (4:22pm): It’s one in the same at this point. Isn’t it? See you soon.

He felt anxious on the cab ride to Brooklyn, never imaging there would be a day when he’d invite  
his boyfriend to join him at the hallowed spot where he’d spent the majority of his teen years  
among homophobes who were more pleasantly hateful than his father. There was a moment,  
however, as he stomped out his cigarette on cracked cement of the sidewalk outside of Walt’s,  
when Mickey had thought better of his ill-conceived idea to let the barflies, and Ian, in on who he  
was, but he pushed forward, opened door for his boyfriend, and ushered him into the seedy  
establishment.

“This is where I go every Tuesday night,” he stated as they walked into the bereft bar, “where I’ve  
always gone.”

“It’s...” Ian began, but Mickey laughed and cut him off.

“You don’t have to lie, it’s a piece of shit,” he said easily, placing his hand on the small of the  
redhead’s back, “just like the assholes you’re about meet.”

“A Milkovich Friday? How’d we get so lucky?” Old Fred exclaimed from his same spot at the bar  
top.

“Maybe it’s actually Tuesday,” Maniac Malloy suggested, taking a sip of his Natty and letting out  
a belch. “Maybe we’re stuck in some Matrix Groundhog universe? You ever seen those movies?  
Imagine them together, you know?”

“That don’t make any sense, Malloy,” Old Fred chided. “Who’s the stray?” he asked Mickey,  
gesturing to the out of place redhead standing beside him.

“My boyfriend,” Mickey said, barely able to loosen the words from where they’d been stuck in his  
throat.

Old Fred and Maniac Mallow looked at him wide-eyed and slack-jawed, too flabbergasted by the  
admission to speak.

“I’m Ian,” the freckle faced man greeted, extending his hand to each of them, proving that it was  
much easier for one to ‘come out’ when he’d never been locked in.

“Pick your mouths up off the floor, you animals,” Sophie admonished, sliding two bottles of beer  
toward Mickey and Ian. “The only thing surprising about this is that you never realized our boy  
wasn’t into broads. Grumps is half-blind and even he saw that shit.”

The perpetually plastered man at the end of the bar nodded and held his drink up in a sloppy  
cheers.

As he took a healthy swig of his beer, Mickey felt a hand rest on his shoulder. He turned to the  
right, knowing his boyfriend was on his left and looked into brown eyes that were regarding him  
more tenderly than usual.

“Okay,” Old Fred said, curling his fingers to gently squeeze the bones of Mickey’s shoulder.  
“You’re okay, Milkovich.”

“That’s good because you’re still a fucking mess,” the brunet shot back with a signature shit-eating grin.

“All’s right in the world,” Maniac Malloy noted with a yawn.

That it was.

Epilogue

It was the first Christmas Eve that Ian hadn’t spent in Pittsburgh. Instead of being nestled between  
three rivers, he was in TriBeCa, on the couch, cuddled under an afghan with Mickey on his left  
and Mandy to his right, watching Andrew act out a movie in a tequila sponsored game of drunken  
charades.

“Oh come the fuck on, B.J.,” Mickey groaned, rubbing his forehead in aggravation before turning  
to his sister. “Why am I on his team? He’s your fiancé, you should be stuck with him.”

“I will be for life,” she replied with a smirk. “You can have him for one night. He’s your best  
friend.”

“I traded up. Ian’s my best friend now. B.J.’s my soul leeching barnacle.”

“Fuck you, asshole. I’m your best friend,” Andrew pronounced with his hands on his hips.

“You’re not allowed to talk,” Ian reminded him, laughing as Mickey grabbed him by the neck and  
laid a sloppy kiss on his lips. “Hi,” he whispered loving the succession of smooches that followed,  
“what’s this for?”

“I love you and I love you more when you rip on Andrew.”

“How is this real life?” Andrew sighed. “I’m bullied by my own family.”

“Get it together. You’re fine,” Mandy promised, standing up so she could give him a playful pat  
on the ass. “I think we should go. It looks like the lovebirds are done with us and they have a  
redeye to catch in,” she glanced down at her watch and tsked, “two hours. You guys better go”

“You should stay until we do,” Ian urged, letting out a soft gasp when Mickey’s mouth moved  
down to his neck, “or don’t.”

“You’re always getting stolen from me,” she said dejectedly, “first by my brother, then by the  
NYCLU, now Mexico. Am I ever going to stop missing you?”

“We’ll be back after New Years and you see him all the time,” Mickey chided, sitting up straight  
so he could receive the goodbye hug his sister goodbye.

“I won’t see him daily at work anymore,” she reminded him, giving Ian a kiss on the cheek. “He’s  
onto bigger and better things.”

“Better for me,” Ian corrected. “I don’t think many people would agree that a Community  
Advocate job is bigger or better than the DA.”

“But you’ll be amazing at it,” Mandy said with a smile. “We’re all so proud of you. It’s brave and  
such a big move.”

“Thanks,” he replied, feeling his cheeks grow warm with blush.

“Congratulations again,” Andrew said, shaking his hand.

“Why did you keep pointing at us by the way?” he asked, chuckling a bit as he recalled the frantic  
look on Andrew’s face as he tried to get Mickey to guess the movie he’d been acting out moments  
before.

“‘To Kill a Mockingbird,’” he answered with a click of his tongue. “Lawyers.”

“You couldn’t have flapped your fucking arms, or I don’t know, shot a gun off or something,”  
Mickey questioned, the look on his face reflecting the exasperation he’d expressed during his  
friend’s turn.

“I just kept thinking lawyers,” Andrew said with a shrug. “My view at the time was a very  
litigious couch. I was possessed by the spirits of lawyers past, present and future.” He pointed to  
Ian, Mickey and Mandy respectively.

“Okay, get out,” Mickey laughed, standing up to shoo his sister and best friend out the door. “Is  
this all you’re taking?” he asked Ian, surprised by the size of the small duffle he’d dropped in the  
entry when he’d arrived.

“I packed a few bathing suits, a pair of jeans and some t-shirts,” Ian answered, “I figured we were  
going to be naked most of the time anyway.”

He lifted his eyebrows and grinned. “I like the way you think, Gallagher.”

“I’m pretty smart.”

“You’re pretty, too,” Mickey flirted, wrapping Ian up in his arms as they stood in front of the too-big-for-his-apartment   
Christmas tree Ian had insisted on getting. “And you have them?”

“You’ve asked me twenty times,” the redhead reminded, giving his cheek a bite.

“Well, it’s important. I promised the kid I’d get them to him.”

“The Bibles are all packed for Santa Clause and his hoe to deliver on Christmas morning, ready to  
make the Yule tide super gay.”

“You’re stupid,” Mickey laughed, pressing a smattering of kisses on Ian’s lips.

“You just said I was smart.”

“I’m stupid in love with you so I say dumb shit,” Mickey reasoned, slotting his mouth on Ian’s

They were quiet for a moment, enjoying the last moments of their first NYC Christmas together.

“Do you think Simon might actually have a beautiful life in Mexico?” Ian asked, watching the  
twinkle lights from the tree flicker in his lover’s satisfied sapphire eyes.

“I think he finally has a chance to,” Mickey replied, burying his face into the crook of his own  
chance’s neck. “I hope he might.”


End file.
